


Helpless

by sofia_gigante



Series: Dark Knight, Bright Son [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BDSM, Begging, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erotic Electrostimulation, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kryptonite, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn that becomes Plot, Restraints, Romance, Secret Identity, Smut, SuperBat, batarang kink, dominant Batman, submissive Superman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:46:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4508322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofia_gigante/pseuds/sofia_gigante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You want to know what it’s like to be helpless…to be one of us.”</i>
</p>
<p>When a near-death experience brings Superman’s desire for Batman out into the open, a dark and surreal relationship grows between the two heroes. However, when Clark’s obsession with Batman’s identity collides with Bruce’s trust issues, their games come to a bitter end. Months later, Clark is distracted from his heartbreak by the assignment of a lifetime—an interview with billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne. Unaware of their shared past—or secret identities—Clark and Bruce's mutual attraction grows into a fledgling relationship. Faced with the potential for something real, they both must decide if they can still live double lives—or if the cost of secrecy will be too high to pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [无法抗拒](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644631) by [ginettecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginettecat/pseuds/ginettecat)



> Big, big thanks to mithen for beta reading this beast of a story!
> 
> This is set in an unspecified universe in both Batman and Superman's third year, pre-JLA and pre-Bat family. I couldn't even tell you if it fits in to any comic, film, or animated series timeline, though it is influenced in part by all mediums.
> 
> This took me about a year to write, after a PWP piece grew into actual plot. The story is complete, and I'll be releasing it a chapter or two at a time. Explicit chapters will be marked **NSFW** in the notes.
> 
> About the "Implied/Referenced Torture" tag: Later on in the story, there will be a situation with enemies deliberately harming a character. It is not graphic, and not done by either Batman or Superman, and not in a sexual context. Tagging just to be safe.
> 
> *********

“I believe this belongs to you.”

Superman dropped the broken robot head on Lex Luthor’s desk, feeling a slight satisfaction as the dented metal scratched the dark mahogany wood.

Luthor calmly put down the tablet computer he’d been holding, folded his hands, and fixed Superman with his piercing green eyes.

“You have ten seconds before I call security to escort you out of my office.” He nodded towards the broken window across the room. “Shall I add that to your bill? Not that you’ve ever taken responsibility for the damage you’ve caused me before.”

“Don’t talk to me about damage when _your_ robots wounded 25 people—two critically—and caused hundreds of thousands of dollars in damages to S.T.A.R. labs!”

“I assure you, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Luthor flicked a dismissive hand at the robot head on his desk. “This is nowhere close to LexCorp’s design for our assistance automatons. Ours are much sleeker. Not this clunky junk.”

Superman’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “I know it was you, Lex. Who else would have the technology—and the motive—to hurt S.T.A.R. Labs like that?”

“Even if you were right, which you are not, you couldn’t prove anything.”

As much as he hated it, Superman knew Luthor was right—he had nothing to prove that the attack had been staged by Luthor. There had been no serial numbers, no identifying markers, nothing to link the robots to LexCorp. Except that Clark _knew_. Whenever there was trouble like this in Metropolis, Lex Luthor was always behind it.

As Luthor steepled his fingers beneath his sharp nose, his Kryptonite ring made his eyes glitter like emeralds. “Now, be a good boy and go fetch a cat out of a tree. I have work to do. I don’t have time for your baseless accusations.”

Frustration churned in Clark’s belly. He was Superman, the Man of Steel. He should be able to do anything—so why could he never make Luthor’s crimes stick on him? Even when he was caught red-handed, he’d weasel his way out with his army of high-powered lawyers and a few well-placed bribes, and was back in business within days.

“Someday, I will find a way to put you away for good, Lex.” Superman growled. He strode towards the hole in the window.

“Not before I do, first.” Lex’s voice was pure ice, stripped of his oily business-man veneer. “Do yourself a favor and disappear, before someone helps you to.”

Clark didn’t dignify Lex’s threats with a response as he leapt away into the air. Within seconds, he was miles away from Metropolis, the cool night air soothing his resentment a bit.

When Clark had revealed himself to the world as Superman three years before, he’d known he would have to contend with powerful enemies. He’d never imagined, though, that his nemesis would be an egomaniacal, evil genius who hid behind a wall of high-dollar bureaucracy as impregnable as a Kryptonite fortress—

Wait. That was odd.

As he looked down at the freeway, he saw two identical, unmarked semi-trucks in a single-file line. Hadn’t Clark seen a pair just like those amid the chaos at S.T.A.R. Labs this afternoon? Suspicious, he honed in with his X-ray vision to see what was inside. He saw nothing. The trucks were lined with lead. Someone didn’t want him peeking inside.

Luthor. More of those robots, perhaps?

He could’ve just swooped in and forced the truck’s doors open. But, there was the off chance they were simple cargo cars, and Superman would just be destroying property at that point. No, it would be best to keep a safe distance above and trail the trucks.

It wasn’t long before the trucks took a fork onto another major freeway, and their destination instantly became clear-- Gotham City.

Clark swallowed hard. He avoided Gotham when he could. It wasn’t just the unsettling architecture, the heavy smog, or the general pall of despair that shrouded the sinister city. He could get past all that, easily, if it meant helping people who needed him…except there was one Gotham resident who had made it very, very clear that he didn’t need Superman’s help.

Well, too bad tonight. This wasn’t about Batman, or Superman trying to “muscle in on his territory,” or whatever the reason Batman had repeatedly told Superman to stay away from Gotham. This was Clark’s investigation into Luthor’s wrongdoings, and if Batman wanted to stop Superman, well, he was welcome to try.

Clark half expected to see the silhouette of the Batplane against the full moon as he crossed into the city limits, but there was no such welcoming committee. Clark felt oddly disappointed. Despite his threats and warnings, Batman might have been able to help. His intel was always spot-on, and he probably would have freely shared if it meant getting Superman out of Gotham faster.

Clark bit back a sigh. That wasn’t entirely fair of him. He and Batman had teamed up several times in the past couple years to take on enemies that neither of them could have defeated alone. They’d actually worked pretty well together—once Batman had deemed Superman worthy of his trust. If Clark could call it that. Two years they’d known each other, and they still didn’t even know each other’s real identities. Not that that bothered Clark. Not at all. He was perfectly content to work with a surly, ice-cold vigilante who was part genius and part nightmare. 

_You take what you can get, right, Clark? Half a friend is better than no friend at all in this line of work._

The trucks pulled off the freeway, pulling Clark’s attention away from his melancholy. They wove their way through the streets, until they came to a stop in front of a blocky white building. It didn’t take his telescopic vision to read the large, blue letters glowing at the top—WayneTech Enterprises. Clark’s pulse sped up as the pieces began to click together. First, an attack on S.T.A.R., now WayneTech. Luthor was either after something specific, or just out to eliminate the competition.

To Clark’s surprise, though, the trucks were waved in by the security guards at the lab’s underground loading dock. Was Clark wrong about another attack? Or were Lex Luthor and Bruce Wayne working together? That would be the unlikeliest of pairings—

The sounds of screams and gunshots pierced the night, echoing from the loading dock. Nope, not a collaboration. A hostile takeover.

Superman swooped down on the building, using his X-ray vision to scan for the robots. They weren’t hard to spot, as they cut a swath of destruction through the building, blasting through metal doors as if they were made of paper. There were more of them here than there had been in Metropolis. Not for the first time, Clark found himself wishing he knew how to reach Batman. A phone number would have been nice. Or maybe he should start carrying a portable Bat-signal. No matter. He was Superman. He could handle anything alone.

******

 Batman’s wrist computer beeped loudly off the alley walls, interrupting the thug’s cry of anguish as his elbow popped out of joint under Batman’s gloved hand. He shouldn’t have pointed the gun at him, then. Just another idiot hood who didn’t know when he was beat—which was the moment he’d tried to rob the liquor store.

Batman finished with the crook, using a zip tie to fasten his non-injured hand to a water pipe. He could already hear the wail of approaching sirens, no doubt summoned by the store’s owner the moment Batman had bought him the opportunity to call for help. Bruce loved it when things worked so smoothly and simply.

As he stepped into the shadows of the alleyway, he checked his wrist. The bat computer was telling him the alarm system at WayneTech had been triggered. Interesting.

Once in the Batmobile, he tapped into the WayneTech security cameras. He wasn’t surprised. Since WayneTech had gone public with their plans to create the world’s first atmospheric moisture collector, they’d run into their share of obstacles and opposition. He full well expected his cameras to reveal a team of hackers, or even a motley collection of super-villain thugs bent on wreaking havoc.

What he had not expected was a horde of humanoid robots, ripping through the building like a swarm of locusts. Even less expected—there was Superman, grimly fighting his way through them.

Bruce frowned, even as he fired up the car’s engines. He’d told Superman on more than one occasion to stay out of Gotham City.

He watched as one of Superman’s punches sent a robot flying through a solid concrete wall. _That_ was why he wanted Superman out of his city. Where ever Superman went, a swath of destruction followed in his wake. It wasn’t entirely his fault. It was in his nature, and sometimes, that raw power was exactly what the world needed. 

Gotham was not a place for raw power. You can’t beat shadows with your fists alone, or even with those strange eye-lasers of Superman’s. Gotham needed someone who turned its own darkness against itself, who was willing to wade into the slime and filth—not someone who would fly above it.

Superman brought hope to the world, and Batman, well, he brought fear. It was the choice he’d made three years ago when he taken on the cowl—

Wait. That robot.

Even as he raced through the streets towards WayneTech, Bruce watched as one of the robots behind Superman leveled a large-barreled arm weapon at him. Superman turned, his fist raised to punch—a hair too late.

The muzzle erupted in a green flash, and Superman flew back into a bank of computers. He sprawled on the smoking remains of the machines, struggling to stand. There was another green flash, and he jerked again before crumbling to the ground in a heap.

Bruce’s heart hammered in his chest. He’d seen Superman wounded before, but never incapacitated like that. It could only mean one thing—Kryptonite.

Fear gripped Bruce’s heart. He might not agree with Superman’s ideology at times, but he was a genuinely good man. A real hero—and the only other person outside of Gotham that Batman didn’t mind working with.

_The closest thing to an ally you have in this crusade against crime, and you’ve just watched him go down on your beat._

The WayneTech building was already in sight, and Batman braced himself to launch from the Batmobile as soon as it came to a stop. It was going to be tricky, disabling the robots and rescuing Superman, but he was Batman. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle alone. 


	2. Whimper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Don’t stop,” Clark whispered. His voice was so weak he wasn’t sure if he’d spoken the words out loud, so he cleared his throat, and tried again. “Don’t stop.”_ Please.
> 
> **NSFW**

“Superman? Are you awake?”

Clark drifted up slowly from the fog of unconsciousness, his thoughts thick, his senses dulled. He felt like his whole being was wrapped in a wet, cold blanket. What had happened to him?

Clark tried to sit up from his lying position. An alien sensation raced through him, engulfing him body and soul—actual, real pain. His chest felt raw, as if all the skin had been blasted off, leaving nothing but scorched muscle and tender nerves exposed to the cold air. The shock of it tore a gasp from his lungs. He’d been hurt before, but those injuries were a few bumps and bruises compared to this.

He couldn’t help it—it frightened him, especially when he opened his eyes to find nothing but blackness in his field in vision. God, where was he? What happened?

_Tracking Luthor’s trucks to WayneTech. The hordes of bullet-spewing robots. The one with the arm cannon. A deafening blast, the smell of ozone, and then…_

“It’s all right, Superman. You’re safe.”

That voice. There was only one man whose voice sounded like gravel scraping over iced steel— and yet so very calm: Batman.

Despite his pain and bewilderment, Clark felt some of his fear abate. He knew Batman. Trusted him. Somewhat. God, why was his brain so fuzzy?

He tried to sit up again, telling himself he could fight past the rawness in his chest. However, ache became agony, and he had to bite back a cry. Batman placed a firm hand on Clark’s shoulder, and Clark had no choice but to let Batman push him back down.

“Stay still, Superman. You’ve been shot.”

Clark was so delirious he almost laughed. He’d been shot at more times than he could count, and each time the bullets had bounced off of him like rain against a tin roof. 

“With what? Kryptonite bullets?”

“Yes.” The gravity in Batman’s tone sobered Superman immediately. “That robot’s weapon was loaded with kryptonite fragments.”

Clark’s heart began to pound like a drum, his body to shake. Never had he been truly wounded, incapacitated like this. A strange new feeling grew from the pit of his knotted belly, the sickening taste of dread in the back of his mouth. It wasn’t the fear of his near death, but the fear of what lay before him—helplessness. With kryptonite embedded in his body, he was completely vulnerable.

“You’re going to be fine, Superman,” Batman said quietly. The hand on Clark’s shoulder gave a squeeze—quick and surprisingly comforting—before disappearing. “You’re somewhere safe, somewhere I can help you.”

A bright light turned on beside him, and Clark squinted against the glare. When his eyes adjusted, he took in his surroundings. He seemed to be on some sort of metal gurney.  Batman was crouched over a short cart beside him, and the sound of plastic tearing, followed by the thin clink of small metal told him it was prepped with surgical supplies. Batman was always prepared for anything, wasn’t he?

The focused light didn’t pierce the darkness very far, and Clark had the uneasy feeling that it stretched on for a great distance around him. He tried to penetrate it with his enhanced vision, but the attempt left him dizzy to the point of nausea. He closed his eyes against the waves of sickness. It would be so much easier just to slip back into the darkness, to let the pain and fear drift away…

“Stay with me, Superman!”

Clark’s eyes snapped open again in alarm. He was so used to hearing Batman’s voice bark out warnings, hiss intimidations, or—at its kindest—growl in curt conversation.  He’d never heard it tight with genuine concern. Clark clung to it, nodding once, trying not to whimper.

Superman did _not_ whimper.

“It’ll take me some time to pull out these chunks of kryptonite. Just try to hold still.”

A stabbing sensation lanced through Clark’s left pectoral, and he bit back the yelp that threatened to escape him.  Seconds later, though, it receded, becoming dull ache.

“That’s one,” Batman said, his tone grim. “About three dozen more to go.”

Clark heard a sharp clink, and turned his head just enough to watch as Batman dropped a piece of glowing green stone, roughly the size of a pea into a small, lead box. The aching flesh was soothed by something cool, wet, and sterile-smelling before being covered with soft gauze. He wanted to tell Batman he didn’t need antiseptic or bandages, that once the kryptonite was removed, his body would begin to heal on its own. It was comforting, though, and right now he needed every scrap of relief he could get.

The pattern of pain, ache, soothe continued as Batman worked quickly and quietly to remove the scattershot from Superman’s chest. With each piece that Batman dug out, Clark’s all-encompassing agony faded and his disorientation receded bit by bit.

After a while, Clark started feeling coherent enough to feel foolish. He should have known Luthor would’ve planted kryptonite somewhere in those machines. There hadn’t been any kryptonite in the robots that attacked S.T.A.R. labs, though. He must have known Superman would track them to Gotham. It had been a trap.

“You shouldn’t have been there, Superman.” Bruce’s voice was tight, almost angry.

“I was just trying to help.”

“I told you before, Gotham is my city.”

“I was following a lead from Metropolis. What was I supposed to do? Stop at the city limits, let Luthor’s trucks in?”

“You could’ve contacted me.”

Clark’s exasperation broke through his fear and exhaustion. “No. I couldn’t have. I’m not telepathic. I can’t contact you if you don’t tell me how to!”

Batman didn’t reply. Clark tried to read Batman’s expression, but it was nearly impossible under his hard, black mask. Not for the first time, Superman had the unreasonable urge to reach up and simply pull off that lead-lined disguise, see the rest of the features that went with the chiseled jaw and full mouth. Maybe then he’d get a genuine response from him.

The silence stretched on, killing the feeble hope Clark had for getting any closer to Batman. Apparently, getting shot and almost killed in Gotham wasn’t enough to warrant a phone number.

Clark bit back a sigh. Working with Batman was like walking the edge of a sword. Try to get close, and he simply retreated into the shadows. Stay too far away, and he would forget the previous headway Clark had made towards building comradery. It was exhausting, and he knew, logically, that he should just leave Batman to his own devices.

Whenever Batman was around, though, a strange feeling would overcome him. He wanted to be…better. Faster. Stronger. Batman made him fight harder, strive to be a better hero. If Batman deigned to bestow even the hint of praise, then Clark’s entire body would flush with pleasure. It was maddening. He hated how badly he wanted Batman’s approval, and for days after their encounters he would fixate on his mysterious ally. He would try to image the face under the severe mask, which would lead to fantasizing about the hard body beneath the black armor—

Clark’s cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment, and he tried to push the thought to the back of his mind. Now was definitely not the time for those feelings like those. Not even with Batman’s hands actually touching his bare chest.

Clark was suddenly hyper-aware of the sure way Batman’s fingers moved over his wounded flesh, and even the simple contact of skin on skin made Clark’s entire being hum.

_He’s just patching you up. Don’t go imagining things, Clark. Keep yourself in check—like you always have._

He was well used to repressing his yearnings. When they had first arisen in his adolescence, he’d been able to distract himself somewhat with school and the farm. More recently, his higher calling as Superman kept him more than preoccupied, as did his full-time job at the Daily Planet. When even all that wasn’t enough, he would try to pin his longings on Lois, and it would work—until the next time he saw Batman.

 “That’s all of them,” Batman announced, shutting the lid on the lead box. “How soon until you begin to heal yourself?”

Clark still felt weak, slightly dizzy, though he wasn’t sure if it was the after-effects of the kryptonite exposure, or his fixation with Batman’s touch. He struggled to collect his thoughts.

“It’s already begun. If I could get some sunlight I could heal it even faster.”

“Dawn’s still another few hours off.”

“Maybe I can fly somewhere where the sun’s already shining.” Clark sat up, but the dizziness increased. Guess it was the kryptonite. He could fight through it. As he tried to get off the gurney, he swayed forward too far, and he felt himself losing balance.

Batman was there in an instant, his hands on Clark’s shoulders to steady him. Before he could think about what he was doing, Clark pressed his forehead to Batman’s shoulder, using the solid surface to anchor his spinning head. Icy-hot embarrassment coursed through him. God, he hated being so _weak_ in front of Batman.  What must he think of Superman, to be taken out so completely by a handful of glowing green rocks?

“I think you need to rest a little longer.” Batman’s voice was surprisingly gentle. He pushed down on Clark’s shoulders, and Clark let himself be guided back down onto the gurney. The metal felt like ice in this cave, even through his uniform, and Clark shivered involuntarily.

“Are you cold?”

“I’ll be fine.” Clark tried to play it off. It was one thing to be hurt, another to be a whiner.

“Your uniform is badly torn.”

Clark’s hands came up to feel the gaping holes in his uniform. The entire front of the chest had been blasted away, and there were several tears along his abdomen and down his upper thighs. His heart sank.

“My mother made me this uniform.” He murmured.

Clark inwardly winced. He sounded just like a schoolboy who’d skinned his knee and put a hole in his brand-new pants.

“I’m sorry.”

Clark blinked rapidly in surprise. Batman actually _did_ sound sorry. That…that was a first.

“It’s all right. She can fix it. I hope.”

“Your mother, she’s still alive?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

Clark was astonished. This was the first time, ever, that Batman had asked about Clark’s life outside of Superman. It was a start, he supposed.

“Yes. Both my parents are.” He stopped himself before he gave away more. As much as he wanted to trust Batman, he knew better than to share too much about his background, lest it inadvertently put his parents in jeopardy. He wondered if he should ask Batman the same question, see if he could get any scrap of personal information from him, but before he had gathered his courage, Batman was already moving away from him.

“Wait here.”

 _‘Where would I go?’_ was on the tip of Clark’s tongue when Batman vanished into the shadows. Clark lay alone for what felt like a long time, listening to the distant sound of running water. He tried to pin-point the location, but super-senses hadn’t returned in full, either, and probably wouldn’t until he got some sun.

“Here.”

Batman rematerialized beside Clark, startling him. He was holding out what appeared to be a folded set of clothing to Clark, a white, button down shirt and a pair of black slacks. Even more surprises. Batman owned something other than black.

“Thank you.” Clark said, taking the offered clothes. He tried to sit up again, wincing at the discomfort as he stretched his healing flesh.

“Easy there.”

“I’ll be fine.” Clark said curtly. However, as he tried to pull his torn shirt off over his head, his muscles ached in protest, and he sucked in his breath as he raked the tight fabric over his wounds.

“Here.”

Batman took the hem of Clark’s shirt and pulled it out and away from his wounds before carefully lifting it up. It took Clark a minute for realization to sink in—Batman was undressing him.

Clark’s head swam, and this time he knew it wasn’t his injuries that were making him dizzy. He tried to center himself. He thought of his wounds. He thought of the farm. He thought of the way the Earth looked from space, the beautiful blues and greens and browns melding together under wisps of white—

The side of Batman’s bare hand accidentally grazed Clark’s left nipple as he pulled the shirt up to his armpits. Clark actually started at the buzz of unexpected pleasure that thrummed through him, and he gasped involuntarily.

“Did I hurt you?” Batman asked, his voice part confusion, part concern.

“A little.” Clark bit his lip, trying to protect his unconvincing lie. His face burned as he lowered his head under the pretense of helping Batman pull his uniform off, but truly, it was a quiet way to hide his shame.

_Things are bad enough as it is—coming in Batman’s backyard against his wishes, getting dropped while on the job, needing to be patched up and remaining as weak as a kitten—don’t make it worse by letting him know just how much this is turning you on._

He tried. Oh how he tried. But Batman was so close he could feel his warm breath against the back of his neck. His strong hands were skimming down Clark’s arms as he pulled the uniform off, solid and sure, and Clark had the wild, unreasonable urge to grab Batman, pull him closer, feel the cold wall of his Kevlar armor against his feverishly warm flesh—

“Move forward onto the edge.”

Was Clark imagining it, or was Batman’s voice suddenly very, very hoarse?

Clark was so distracted that he instantly complied, not realizing what Batman wanted until he felt his hands grazing Clark’s belt buckle. Clark’s heart slammed against his ribcage like a machine piston, his mouth opening to protest that it was all right—he wore his tights under his regular clothes all the time, he didn’t need to take his legging off—

The snap of the unlatched belt seemed to echo off the cave walls, and the band of fabric fell away.  Heat surged through Clark’s entire body, thrumming in his loins. This needed to stop, before Batman saw the evidence of what this was doing to Clark.

Deep in his throat, Batman made the tiniest of groans, as if it had escaped without his willing it. Clark suddenly became aware of how ragged Batman’s breathing had become. Could he be—no. It would be far too miraculous to think himself desired by the one man he’d ever wanted so badly. 

Batman’s fingers hooked into the waistband of Clark’s uniform, and hesitated. Clark knew that if Batman pulled down his leggings there would be no turning back. No hiding, no pretending. It was the most visceral and concrete proof of lust. Clark could still stop him, could pretend that Batman couldn’t see the bulge growing in Clark’s leggings, and they could go back to the way things had been before—reticent comrades, not quite friends.

Seconds passed and still Batman did not move. Clark dared a look up into Batman’s masked face, and for one naked moment, Clark could see the confusion, the need, roiling in the icy blue depths of Batman’s eyes. It was the first time Clark had ever truly been able to read anything in his usually steely expression. He was momentarily open, and Clark knew what he saw there: raw desire.

“Don’t stop,” Clark whispered. His voice was so weak he wasn’t sure if he’d spoken the words out loud, so he cleared his throat, and tried again. “Don’t stop.” _Please._

Batman’s muscles tensed against Clark’s skin, and he was certain that Batman was going to wrench his hands away. Within moments he would slip back into the darkness—as he always did—away from Clark, away from the possibilities between them.

Inch by inch, Batman peeled the leggings off of him. Clark gasped as his skin was exposed to the cool air, his erection free of its confines at last.  Clark watched Batman’s face, trying to gage his reaction to seeing him—Superman, the Man of Steel, his comrade-in-arms—so bared, so needy. As always, though, Batman’s chiseled jaw stayed firmly set, his sharp eyes studying, assessing Clark’s exposed cock. Clark squirmed, feeling more naked than he ever had in his life.

_God, please, DO something!_

Batman’s tongue darted out and wet his bottom lip. It wasn’t much of a hint, but it was enough for Clark to read his dark friend. _He’s nervous!_ Clark wondered, suddenly, if this was something that was as new to Batman as it was to Clark. How could Clark encourage Batman to keep going? Clark was afraid to speak, afraid to move. What could he do to tell Batman it was OK, without scaring him off?

He did the only thing he could think of.

He whimpered.

It was a low and hungry sound, straight from the core of his being. He needed this, oh, how he needed this, to relieve not only his secret desire for Batman, but the years of long denial he’s forced upon himself.

The whimper did the trick. One minute Batman was standing, staring, the next his head was in Clark’s lap, his hand wrapping around Clark’s shaft to guide it into his waiting mouth. Moist heat engulfed Clark’s aching cock, and all thoughts were obliterated by the pure, raw bliss blasting through him.

Nothing in his life had ever felt so good. Not even the first time he’d flown through the sky, over the planet, across the stars. This was the opposite, falling into flesh and need and singing pleasure—raw and earthy and so beautifully _real_.

Clark groaned as Batman swallowed him down in great, greedy gulps. Clark lifted his head up enough to watch through lust-blurred eyes as Batman’s cowled head bobbed over his pelvis, his thick shaft disappearing over and over between those full, pink lips as he sucked.

Clark lifted his free hand to touch Batman’s hollowed cheek, but Batman’s hand darted out—letting go of the base of Clark’s cock—to push Clark’s hand down against the table. For a second, Clark considered trying to break Batman’s hold. Even weakened as he was, he could possibly overpower him.

_But you don’t want to be the powerful one right now, do you, Clark?_

Batman sucked even harder, his tongue lashing Clark’s swollen head viciously, making him cry out. Oh God, he was so close, so very close! His hips bucked furiously, driving his cock up into that hot, wet heaven, his breath coming in strained grunts. He needed something more, something to drive him over the edge.

He reached out to touch Batman with his free hand. As expected, Batman’s other hand lashed out and wrapped around Clark’s free wrist, slamming the hand down onto the table. Now, both Clark’s hands were pinned to the metal, and a strange thrill grew from the pit of his stomach. He pushed up just enough on Batman’s wrists to make him push back harder. Clark moaned, relishing the strange feeling of helplessness, of being controlled while being pleasured. Realizing what he was silently asking for, Batman squeezed Clark’s wrists hard, and if he had been a normal man it would’ve hurt. But it only felt tight, deliciously tight, tight as Batman’s throat as it slipped over the head of Clark’s cock, drawing it in deep down its hot, slick depths—

_Oh God oh God oh God—_

Clark came with the force of an exploding planet. His back arched like a bow string, rapture ripping through him as he spent into Batman’s furiously sucking mouth. Batman pressed on Clark’s wrists with all his strength, trying to pin him down as he came, but even with all his strength Clark was still able to lift his wrists several inches off the table. It was enough, though. God, was it more than enough.

Only when Clark’s last cry stopped echoing in the darkness did Batman finally let go. Clark felt his spent cock slip from between Batman’s lips, and he looked up to find Batman’s upper lip dotted with sweat. He wanted to touch it, to kiss it, lick those tiny droplets away.

Before he could say or do anything, though, Batman began backing away.

“Wait,” Clark called out, confusion cutting through his euphoria. “What about you?”

“What about me?” It was almost a challenge. Clark tried to find Batman’s eyes under his hood, but he had stepped far enough back into the shadows that all Clark could see were two pools of inky black.

“Is there something I can do…for you?” Clark was thrown off. In all his fantasies, this scenario had been reciprocal; Clark finally reaching behind the mask, the armor, to the man underneath.

“No.” Batman’s voice was steely, brooking no argument.

Clark was going to try anyway.

“But—”

“I said, no!” Batman growled. His jaw set into that cold, hard angle, his lips pressed into a thin slit. His entire body tensed, like it did before a fight.

Clark was stunned. A few minutes before, this man had shared one of the most intimate moments of Clark’s life. Now he was back to his usual standoffish self. No, he was actively worse.

“Batman…” Clark hated how brittle his voice sounded. He wished—not for the first time—that he knew Batman’s real name, so he could have something, anything, to try to reach him with. But he had nothing.

Nothing except his honesty.

“Come here,” Clark said.

Batman didn’t budge.

“Come here.” He infused his words with quiet force, making them neither demand nor request. “Please.”

Batman took a single step forward. Though he stayed out of Clark’s arms’ reach, Clark could finally see those blue eyes. They were guarded, of course, but Batman could not help the turbulence roiling just under the layers of ice.  

Clark extended his hand to Batman. He wanted— _needed_ —to touch him, to know this hadn’t been some strange fever dream, a side effect of the kryptonite.

_The kryptonite!_

Suddenly, he knew what was bothering Batman.

“You didn’t do anything I haven’t wanted you to do for a very, very long time,” Clark said softly. “You didn’t take advantage—” he licked his lips, struggling for words. “It wasn’t the kryptonite.”

Batman was quiet for a long, long moment. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, one of his hands began to rise. It was easy to see, the pale flesh standing out against the blackness—so much blackness in Batman’s world—and hope began to bloom in Clark’s chest.

The very tip of Batman’s fingers grazed Clark’s, just enough for him to feel the warmth, the roughness, the _need_ , before they fell away. Then he was just gone, swallowed up by the darkness.

“Batman,” Clark called. This time, there was no reply. He tried to use his super-hearing to pinpoint where Batman had gone—his heartbeat, his breath—but he was met with utter silence. Were his senses still dulled? How could Batman utterly disappear from him?

He tried to use his super-vision to penetrate the darkness, glad the effort no longer left him weak and nauseated. To his surprise, it was near complete blackness. He could see through the medical equipment nearby, support girders in the stone ceiling and the walls, but otherwise there were huge patches of dead zones he could not see—

Batman had lined the chamber with lead.

A strange, new hurt swelled in Clark’s chest. Just when he thought he’d broken through a layer of armor, he realized just how many had been erected, specifically designed to keep him out.

He sighed deeply and rubbed his hand over his chest, feeling the healed skin underneath. The bandages were already unnecessary, and he pulled them off one by one. He was already feeling much stronger, though he still needed a good dose of sunlight to fuel up to his full strength again. Not to mention, a long, hot shower.

_What have I done?_

Standing fully, he pulled off the rest of his ruined clothes, wadding them in a tight, super-compressed ball to shove into the pocket of his borrowed slacks. He dressed himself in the clothes, noting the fine material, the excellent cut. They were probably the nicest clothes he’d ever worn, even if they fit a shade too tight.

Now, to find a way out of here. He looked around, and to his surprise, he saw a path of small, round lights leading deeper into the cave, where the blackness didn’t seem quite so thick. Batman had opened the door to let him out, Clark supposed. Swallowing down the impulse to call out to Batman once last time, he followed the trail of lights out of the cave into the cold, pre-dawn morning.

*********

Bruce waited until Superman’s image disappeared on the Batcave monitors before he approached the lead-lined antechamber again. He’d had it prepared for the possibility that he would have to lure the Superman somewhere Batman would have home turf advantage. He never imagined he’d be using it to give him refuge.

He gingerly picked up one of the blood-tinged bandages that Superman had pulled off before he left. Remarkable. Bruce now had something most scientists and super-villains would kill for: a biological sample.

_Well, you have two types of samples now, don’t you?_

Bruce flushed hot, swallowing hard against the bitter-salty taste still coating his mouth. Even as his cock gave a tortured throb at the memory of Superman coming down his throat, his stomach churned sourly with shame.

He should have kept his damn hands to himself. He should have just patched up Superman and sent him on his way, never mind the tiny sighs he’d made with each caress, the way his skin felt like warm marble under his palms, or the way those sky blue eyes looked up at Bruce with such trust, such longing.

_“Don’t stop.”_

Bruce’s cock gave a pained jolt at the memory, aching for any form of relief. Instead, he reached down into the lead box filled with the shards of kryptonite he’d removed from Superman’s chest. He held one up, studying the tiny, glowing stone. He had to analyze it further to understand exactly what it had done to Superman.

_You saw what it did to him._

It had to be the kryptonite. Superman was the all-American hero, Earth’s Golden Boy. Despite all that power, though, he was still so trusting of humanity, so pure of heart—

_And you took advantage of that._

Shame tightened his chest. Bruce had corrupted Superman’s purity, tainted that light with his own dark needs, his foolish fantasies. He’d been weak.

_“You didn’t do anything I haven’t wanted you to do for a very, very long time.”_

Angrily, Bruce pushed off his mask. It didn’t matter. Superman was gone, and what had just happened between them would mean less with each passing night they simply fought side-by-side as comrades.  He had more important things to tend to, such as analyzing the footage from the robot attack at WayneTech. The robot’s strike had been surprisingly focused, and he had come so very close to damaging the prototype Atmospheric Moisture Collector, the project Bruce had spent three years and millions of dollars developing. He suspected that the answer that riddle also lay in the tiny green stone in his hand.

Why were the robots in Gotham ready for Superman and not Batman? Superman…kryptonite…Lex Luthor…LutherCorp. Of course. Bruce had just refused to sell or share any information on his big project with Luthor, and now an army of robots shows up at WayneTech’s labs with a kryptonite gun. Interesting…and disturbing.

As he put the pieces together, Bruce ran his bare hand over his mouth. His fingers were still tinged with Superman’s secret, musky odor, and the scent stopped his thoughts dead in their tracks. He fought the urge to breathe in again, to relish the memory of intimacy, but instead he dropped his hand to his side in a balled fist. No more distractions. He had work to do. A sudden wave of exhaustion threatened to crest over him, but he fought that back, too.

_Always fighting, Bruce. Fighting crime, fighting your past…fighting yourself._

 It had been such a very, very long night, and there was still so much more to do. There was no rest, no relief, no back-up. Batman worked alone, and always would, no matter what feelings those warm, summer-blue eyes stirred up in him.

Batman didn’t need Superman. Batman worked alone.


	3. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You want to know what it is to surrender.” Batman whispered._
> 
> _“Yes.” Clark’s entire body thrummed, quivering with terror and elation. “I want to know what it is to surrender to **you**.”_
> 
> **NSFW.**

“We need to talk.”

“No. We don’t.”

Batman turned around and strode across the rooftop of the abandoned factory that Superman had cornered him on. When he reached the edge, he looked down through the misty rain in time to see the last of the police cars pulling away from the building. It hadn’t taken the Gotham police long to pack up the thwarted eco-terrorists he and Superman had left bound to the factory’s front railing. Batman’s work here was done.

He pulled his grappling gun out from his belt and aimed it at the tallest spire of the building. However, Superman’s huge hand clamped firmly over the grappling gun. He pushed down gently, with great restraint, but Batman still felt as if his arms were being forced down by a forklift.

“Yes. We do.” Superman’s gaze bored into Batman. His eyes were the blue of a cloudless summer sky, surprisingly bright against the gloom of this rainy autumn night. It stirred up the feelings Bruce had been fighting for weeks to repress, memories he’d been failing to forget.

_“Don’t stop.”_

Bruce wanted to look away, hide his shame from that open concern, but he made himself hold Superman’s look. He was the Dark Knight. He didn’t back down from anyone, not even Superman.

_Then why have you been avoiding him for weeks?_

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Superman mirrored Bruce’s thoughts, not in question, but in statement. There was not a little hurt in that tone, and it surprised Bruce how his heart squeezed to hear it. 

Bruce pushed back against his emotions. He had his reasons, and he didn’t need to explain them to Superman.

“Yes. I am.” If Superman was going to be direct, then so was Bruce. “Now that we have that covered, we both should be getting back to more important things.” He tried to pull his grappling hook from Superman’s hand, but the device didn’t budge.

“This is important,” Superman said. “Our personal lives—”

“Don’t mix with—” Bruce snarled.

“Do affect our work.” Superman spoke over Bruce, his tone maddeningly calm. “And I hate to say it, but you’re getting sloppy, Batman.”

“Sloppy?” His voice was cold, even as a hot jolt of anger coursed through him.

Superman didn’t flinch from Bruce’s hard tone. “I saw it tonight, when I flew in through the roof to help, it threw you off.”

“I didn’t need your help!” Batman hissed.

“Yes, you did. That eco-terrorist almost managed to activate the bomb. If I hadn’t used my frost breath…”Superman’s words trailed off into a sigh. He looked unsure, and it unnerved Bruce. Superman was always so collected, a pillar or strength.

“I distract you,” Superman finally said, “and, I don’t blame you. What happened between us was...distracting.”

Bruce’s heart lurched in his chest. _This._ Superman really wanted to talk about this, _here_? No. Bruce had been working too hard to put it all behind him. He gritted his teeth, set his jaw, and leaned forward slowly until his face was just inches away from Superman’s.

_That face. Remember how gorgeous it looked all flushed with pleasure?_

“Let’s get one thing clear, Superman,” Bruce growled, putting every ounce of intimidation he had into his words. “What happened between us was a _mistake_.”

That seemed to faze Superman. He didn’t flinch back, but he blinked rapidly, that super-brain of his trying to wrap itself around Bruce’s pain, his anger. Hurt of his own bloomed in his pale blue eyes, and Bruce hated himself even more. It was bad enough he’d used Superman when he was at his most vulnerable, succumbed to his dark desires in a moment of weakness. Now he was hurting his feelings as well.

Bruce couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled back, away from that brilliant blue pain. He simply let go of his grapple gun, stepping away from Superman.

“I have no excuses for you,” Batman said quietly. He turned around, assessing his escape route. A jump it was, then. “If you want an apology from me, you have it.”

“That’s not what I want.” Superman’s voice was thick, oddly strained.

“Then what do you want?”

 “I want to do it again.”

“What?” Batman was sure he’d heard Superman wrong. He turned, confusion twisting his features.

“I want to do it again.” Superman stepped forward. He licked his lips nervously. “I want to do it right. Without being compromised, without you torturing yourself with guilt afterwards.”

“Do what exactly?” Batman croaked, all confidence and intimidation stolen from him by shock.

 “Surrender myself to you.”

Batman’s heart pounded in his chest, his thoughts whirling like a hurricane. No, this had to be some trick, some game. There was no way that Superman wanted to…wanted _him_ …

Superman looked down, struggling. When he looked up, his once-bright eyes were darkened by hunger.

“I wanted it, Batman,” Superman said quietly. “I know you don’t believe it, but I did. It wasn’t the kryptonite, it wasn’t the wounds. It was you.” He took a deep breath. “It’s always been you.”

Bruce reeled inwardly, and he struggled to find purchase on the ground slipping away beneath him.

Superman finally looked away. “I know this is odd. Believe me, I never thought my…my first time with someone would be like that.”

“Your first…” Batman trailed off. He felt as if he’d been punched. How could _Superman_ have been…

Superman nodded, his lip curling up into the hint of a smile. “Sex is a little complicated when you’ve got super-strength. But with the kryptonite…”

“You were able to enjoy yourself without hurting me.” Realization dawned in Bruce, bright and beautiful and terrifying. The kryptonite had made it possible, but not in the way Bruce had feared.

Superman nodded, his expression hopeful. Honest. Like him. It was what drew Bruce to Superman, despite himself: his light, his energy, his optimism.

And now he was asking to be dragged down into the darkness with him.

“Why?”

“Why?” Superman repeated, confusion creasing his normally smooth brow.

“Why me?” Bruce’s eyes narrowed.

Superman took a deep breath, and he bit his lower lip. Finally, he met Bruce’s gaze, and the light he saw in there stole his breath away.

“When I was most helpless, you cared for me. Then, afterwards…when you held me down you…you made me _want_ to be helpless…” Superman’s words trailed off, and he took a deep breath as he collected his thoughts. “It comes down to trust, and I trust you, Batman.”

Trust. There were only a handful of people Bruce trusted, and even fewer who trusted him in kind. To have Superman’s open trust, honest desire…it was almost too much. A responsibility, an honor, beyond him.

_Aren’t you all about facing impossible odds, Bruce?_

“This is a lot for you, I know,” Superman said softly, “and if this is something you don’t want, I won’t ever bring it up again.” He swallowed hard. “But I think you do, Batman.”

Superman tossed Batman back his grappling gun, which surprised him. He looked up from the device in his hands to see Superman striding away towards the other side of the roof. He was leaving. Bruce had one chance.

“Can you find the cave again?” Batman asked before he realized he was speaking.

Superman nodded, without turning his head.

“Tomorrow. Midnight.”

Before he could change his mind, Batman aimed his grappling gun at the tallest spire of the factory and pulled the trigger, zipping away into the misty night.

****

Clark’s heart thundered in his ears as he followed the trail of lights back into the cave. To be honest, he’d half-expected to find them off, Batman having rescinded his invitation at the last minute. But here they were, leading a path back to the secret grotto where Clark has tasted the richest pleasure of his life—and hopefully would again.

A shiver went through him--part anticipation, part fear--as the chamber came into view. It was mostly dark, as it had been before, illuminated by that single harsh medical light. However, rather than illuminating a gurney and a cart of medical supplies, there was a single plush chair. It was old-fashioned, tall-backed with open arms, and upholstered in rich wine-colored velvet. It seemed strange and out of place in the cave, a symbol of opulence amid the black stone.

Beside the chair was a small side table of fine, dark wood. It was simple, with a single drawer, it’s handle shining brass in the harsh light. On top of the table was a small, grey box, and beside it, a black leather blindfold.

Clark couldn’t help himself. He _looked,_ using his super-sight. He couldn’t see through the box—or the blindfold—just as he couldn’t see through the walls of the cavern. Lead, again. The realization made unease grow in his belly. Lead could only mean that there was something in there Batman was hiding from him, things Batman didn’t want him to see…

If Batman was here at all.

“Batman?” Clark asked quietly into the black. His words echoed off the stone walls, fading into the darkness.

Uncertainty gnawed at him. What if Batman had changed his mind?

“I’m here.”

Batman’s gruff voice came from everywhere and nowhere, surrounding Clark like a cloak. He couldn’t help himself, he tried to hone his hearing to pin-point the location, but the lead-lined walls prevented him from doing so. Clark turned around, trying—and failing—to find him with his super-vision. It was disorienting, to feel suddenly helpless again.

_Isn’t that why you’re here, Clark?_

“Sit in the chair.” Batman’s voice was more command than invitation. “And put on the blindfold.”

Clark hesitated, unsure once again. He hadn’t even set eyes on Batman, and already the game was beginning? Was Batman trying to protect the secret door he’d used to sneak away last time? Or was it a trap?

“Do you really trust me, Superman?”

Clark swallowed hard, his heart pounding anew. _Trust._ He said he’s trusted Batman. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.

“Yes.”

Clark stepped forward to the chair. Giving in to his caution, he scanned it with his vision. It was completely normal, made of wood and metal and cloth. No hidden triggers or devices. Taking a deep breath, Clark turned, and sat down. The chair cradled him comfortably.

“Your eyes are still open.” Batman reproached.

Clark swallowed hard. Why was this so difficult? Maybe if he could actually see Batman first—

With a ragged breath, he picked up the blindfold. It was heavy, testament to the lead encased in the smooth leather. He closed his eyes, and fastened it around his head. He opened his eyes, and couldn’t help but try to see with his super-vision. He was met with nothing but blackness. He was effectively blind.

 Clark’s breath was impossibly loud in his ears for what seemed like an eternity. Then, he heard a rustle of thick cloth, the click of booted heels on stone. He knew that step. Batman was indeed here, and he was coming closer…closer. Icy-hot anticipation raced up his limbs and pooled in his chest, and he fought the urge to open his eyes. It became nearly unbearable when the footsteps stopped, just a couple of feet away, and Clark could practically feel Batman’s cool gaze raking over him.

“You’re not wearing your uniform.” Batman said quietly.

“I thought I could return the clothes I borrowed.” Clark said, tugging consciously at the skillfully tailored clothes, the nicest he’d ever worn, even if they were a shade too tight. It was more than a gesture of return though...it was a symbol. A reset of sorts, to where they’d left off. “Is that all right?”

Clark started when he felt Batman’s hand come to rest on his chest, warm and solid. It jolted him out of his thoughts and back into his body. Batman toyed with the fine buttons on the shirt, not undoing them.

“Are you still Superman without your uniform?”

Clark thought for a long moment. He was always Superman, whether he was clad in his blue, red, and yellow costume or stripped naked. But right now, he didn’t _want_ to be Superman. He didn’t want the weight of the world on his shoulders, the power a God in his hands. He simply wanted to be himself. He couldn’t give his identity away, though, not yet. Not like this. But there was an older name, a deeper name, one that wouldn’t show up on legal documents or trace back to his friends and family--

“Kal-El,” he breathed, his true name revealed at last. “I am Kal-El.”

 “Kal-El.” Batman rolled the word on his tongue, and it sounded like rough music to Clark’s ears. “Tonight you are simply Kal-El.”

“And who are y—”

Batman pressed two fingers across Clark’s lips, silencing him. Clark smelled leather under his nose, felt the smoothness of his glove.

“You know who I am. It’s why you’re here.”  Batman ran his gloved hand across Clark’s lips, across his jaw. He lingered, and then slid down the column of Clark’s throat until they came to rest on his shoulder. His fingers tightened into a neck pinch, and though Clark did not feel pain, he felt the tightness, the possessiveness. It made him shiver.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Batman continued. “To be held. Restrained.”

“Yes.” The word slipped past Clark’s lips before he could stop himself.

“You want to know what it’s like to be helpless.” A rough chuckle. “To be one of _us_.”

Clark swallowed hard. “Yes.”

The fingers of Batman’s other hand drifted across Clark’s cheek. These fingers were warm, bare, rough. Batman’s flesh. The flesh Clark had been dreaming of since he’d first felt it.

He don’t know what possessed him, whether it was the blindfold, or the spell Batman was weaving with his words. Before he could think, Clark turned his head until his lips were under Batman’s fingers. Gently, lest his enthusiasm cloud his control, he sucked Batman’s fingers into his mouth. He heard Batman’s intake of breath as he tasted the salt of his skin. He tongued the digits, tracing the whorls of his fingerprints, the sharp little edges of his nails. Batman slid his fingers out of Clark’s mouth, but kept them resting on his lips.

“You want to know what it is to surrender.” Batman whispered.

“Yes.” Clark’s entire body thrummed, quivering with terror and elation. “I want to know what it is to surrender to _you_.”

God, just saying those words out loud, his darkest, deepest fantasy aired into the light, made his cock twitch in his tight cotton briefs. He felt lightheaded, as if he were floating outside his own body. He wished he could see Batman’s face, read his reaction, know if this was all too much, too insane. Superman, simply giving himself over.

Warm, moist breath ghosted over Clark’s lips, smelling slightly of peppermint. Batman had brushed his teeth. That one, tiny gesture, more than anything, told Clark what he needed to know. It meant he was prepared for intimacy, true, but that one, tiny detail spoke of Batman’s own insecurities—his own humanity.

For one heart-hammering second, Clark was sure that Batman was going to kiss him. His lips were so close that Clark could feel their heat, their desire. It would only take a little nudge…

“Then you will know surrender, Kal-El.”

Batman stood up, taking his warmth with him. Clark repressed the urge to sigh in disappointment. So close, so very close. He could still taste the salt of Batman’s fingers on his tongue, and the flavor only whet Clark’s appetite, made his shaft grow harder in his borrowed trousers.

Beside him, he could hear Batman open the lead box on the table. Clark tensed, his sense for danger warning him. Good things never came in lead boxes.

“You’re lucky your trust is not misplaced in me,” Batman said quietly, “you left behind some important things last time. Biological samples. Your blood, your semen.”

Clark’s face flushed hot under his blindfold, even as his chest tightened in apprehension.

Batman continued. “In the wrong hands, they could have been used to make weapons against you.”

“And in your hands?”

Batman took Clark’s left hand from the armrest of the chair, and turned it over so its palm was facing up. He pressed something small, cold, and metallic into it, a thin chain pooling into Clark’s palm around it. Clark felt a touch of dizziness, his senses fogging over slightly. A warm slackness radiated down his arm and across his chest, flowing out through his body.

“In my hands, it’s the key to fulfilling your request.” Batman said quietly. “I hope. How do you feel?”

“Strange, almost feverish.” Clark admitted. “A bit like when I’m close to kryptonite…” he trailed off, realization dawning. “It’s the kryptonite, isn’t it?”

“Some of it, yes. I did some tests with it and the samples you left behind, to find the right balance between exposure and shielding—”

“To weaken me without crippling me,” Clark finished. He swallowed hard. Could it really be? Could Batman really have found a way to dampen Clark’s abilities without truly harming him? Clark turned his perception inward. True, he felt drained, his thought-process slowed, but it wasn’t growing into the bone-weariness and full nausea he’d experienced previously with kryptonite.

“How do we test it?” Clark asked. He closed his fist around the small device, fighting a smile as he recognized the shape imprinting on his palm. A bat. Of course.

“Sit still.” Batman commanded. “And don’t flinch.”

Clark’s breath caught as he heard a tell-tale _shink_ of metal sliding against metal. He froze, pulse hammering, as he felt the kiss of cold, sharp steel on his exposed throat. A trickle of fear curled in his belly, alien and new. It was strangely intoxicating, especially as he recognized the hard curve at his neck—a batarang.

The blade trailed down his neck, Batman pressing firmly enough for it to leave a bright line of pain behind it. _Pain._ Clark shivered, his breath catching in his throat.

“Can you feel that, Kal-El?” Batman asked quietly.

“Yes.” Clark breathed.

“Does it hurt?”

Clark was scared that if he told the truth, Batman would stop. He’d been so careful about not wanting to hurt Superman before—

Batman pressed the tip of the batarang into the right hollow of above Clark’s collarbone, making him yelp.

“I asked you a question,” Batman reproached sternly. “I need you to be honest with me if this is going to work.”

Clark nodded hurriedly. “Yes, it does.”

“Do you like it?”

Clark’s head swam. He felt like he was breathing through a wet cloth, his breath tight and shallow.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, I like it.”

Batman trailed the blade down Clark’s exposed chest, until it reached the first button. With an easy flick of his wrist, Batman snapped the button off with the batarang. Clark fought the whimper rising in his chest. His fist tightened around the device in his hand, the bat-shape imprinting into the meat of his palm.

“I will not draw blood. I will not break your skin.” Batman slid the blade lower, to the next button. “I will not scar you or harm you permanently.”

Clark’s lips curled up into a smile despite himself. He doubted anyone could hurt him perma—

He cried out as the point of the batarang pressed into his sternum, sharp and painful as the skin threatened to yield. It sobered him, brought him back to the here and now. Yes, he could be hurt right now. He was vulnerable, and in anyone else’s hands he would have reason to fear. He nodded, showing silently that he understood. In response, Batman’s gloved fingers rubbed over the spot he’d stabbed, soothing the ache.

“That was the first test.” Batman’s voice drifted away slightly, and Clark could hear him rummaging through the lead box once again, the hollow _clink_ of metal against metal.

“And the second?”

Clark’s suspicions were confirmed as a cool, metal band slid around his right wrist. Clark swallowed hard, anticipation knotting his throat as he let Batman guide his left closer and slip a second cuff around it. The cuffs closed with a _click_ , loud as a prison door slamming shut in Clark’s mind. 

“Can you free yourself?” Batman asked.

Clark pulled against the cuffs, not wanting to damage Batman’s handiwork. He’d be happy to fake it to make this evening happen.

The tip of the batarang pressed under his jaw, suddenly sharper than before. Clark didn’t doubt that it would draw blood if he so much as flinched.

“You’re not really trying.” Batman growled. “I want you to pull with all of your might.”

He flexed his muscles. He knew Batman was going to be disappointed, that all his work was for naught. There was very little that could hold Superman when he wanted to escape, especially not a couple of flimsy bands of metal.

He pulled. The cuffs didn’t budge. Confused, Clark pulled again, even harder. He felt them flex a tiny bit, but didn’t come close to giving way. With an odd mix of hope and fear blossoming in his heart, Clark pulled _hard_ , as hard as he could. The cuffs stretched under the pressure, but didn’t break. He was well and truly bound.

“I—I can’t break them.” It was part excitement, part terror. He’d been held captive before, but always against his will. Never like this, never as a volunteer. His instincts kicked in though, his mind racing as he tried to figure out an escape plan. He still had his legs, and he still had his wits. He could kick, he could run, he could smash the cuffs into the stone and break them—

Batman’s bare hand cupped Clark’s jaw, surprisingly gentle. Though he could not see him, Batman titled his face up as if he could, and Clark could practically feel Batman’s gaze cutting through the leather and lead to meet his.

“You need only ask, and your freedom is yours once more,” Batman said, serious as the grave. “This is my gift to you, Kal-El. Safety in restraint, refuge in weakness. I will not allow any harm to come to you while you are in my charge.”

Clark’s heart began to drum a different beat; not the staccato of fear, but the steady march of assurance. There was something else, too, a flutter beneath the rhythm, something fragile, something quieter and deeper than simple desire. Before Clark could examine it fully, he was pulled back into his body by the feel of Batman’s fingers prying his own open and plucking the device from his palm. Clark’s strength and senses momentarily increased, only to be dulled once more as Batman fastened the slim chain around Clark’s neck. It felt heavy for its small size, warmed by his hand. He wondered what it looked like, the Dark Knight’s personal emblem glowing green against his tanned skin—marking him as Batman’s.

_God…this is happening. This is really, really happening._

“Thank you,” Clark whispered, unable to think of what else to say.

Batman chuckled low in his throat. “I haven’t even begun.”

Clark swallowed hard, anticipation overriding trepidation. “Then let’s start.” He licked his lips nervously. “Please.”

*****

_“Please.”_

God, Superman was so polite, even when he was begging.  Bruce’s pulse raced, his head swimming with lust. He felt almost drunk, and he had to fight the urge to simply slam his lips against Superman’s—no, _Kal-El’s_ —mouth, rip his pants open and sink himself down on that magnificently thick cock he’d sucked off before—

Bruce took a deep, controlling breath. No. He was going to do this right. This was for Kal-El, to make up for how Bruce had taken advantage of him before. Bruce was going to take his time, let Kal-El enjoy himself. Especially if this was only his second time.

Christ. Really, of all the people in the world, Bruce was going to be the one to initiate Superman into his sexuality?

_No, not Bruce_. Batman.

Bruce swallowed hard under his mask. He’d worn it and his uniform—albeit without the heaviest bits of equipment and armor. Even with Superman blindfolded, Bruce couldn’t take the risk of Superman seeing who he really was. Not yet. Not like this. 

_He wants the Dark Knight, not you, Bruce._

Bruce looked down at his prize, his breath hitching. Before him sat Superman, bound more by the medallion than the gleaming cuffs. Even more intoxicating, he was dressed in Bruce’s own clothes, his chiseled bulk straining the tailored lines just enough to be enticing. It made him appear all the more vulnerable, and were it not for the tell-tale curl of his black hair pressed against his forehead, Bruce might have mistook him for someone else. Someone human.

But he wasn't human. Bruce had the most powerful being in the known universe voluntarily bound and surrendered in his cave, begging for Batman to show him what it meant to feel real pleasure…Bruce’s deepest, darkest desire come to deliciously strange life.

“Lift your arms over your head,” Bruce commanded in his gravelliest voice, “and hold the top of the chair.”

He was partly amazed when Kal-El complied. So eager to please—and to be pleased. Bruce wouldn’t keep him waiting.

With his arms raised and elbows out, Kal-El’s chest was exposed, the fabric of the shirt open down past his sternum. Bruce picked up his batarang and used it to slice off the next button, and the next. When he’d removed every button in sight, Bruce grabbed both sides of the shirt and tugged hard, yanking the fabric out of the tight waist band of Kal-El’s black pants.  Kal-El gasped involuntarily as his chest was exposed the cold air, and Bruce bit his lower lip as he watched his dark pink nipples shiver erect. It had been those tempting little nipples that had broken Bruce before, shattered through his restraint when he’d accidentally brushed one, making Superman whimper so gorgeously.

_Let’s see if I can make him whimper again._

Bruce’s fingers stroked over the twin buds, one hand gloved, the other bare. Kal-El’s biceps tightened as he gripped the chair even harder, his thick pectorals rising as his breath hitched. Bruce marveled at Kal-El’s physique as he teased him, freely tracing the warm skin, circling the areolae before strumming across the nipples once again. He kept his touches light, teasing, drifting across his skin in lazy patterns.

He circled the Bat-shaped medallion he’d fashioned—a feat of jewelry-crafting and engineering that had kept him occupied all day. Inside the titanium and lead casing were five grams of powdered kryptonite. He could see the glowing green dust from the small window of thin, ballistic glass, coloring Kal-El’s tanned skin slightly. Bruce was lucky he’d already been working on developing wearable protection against Superman, it hadn’t taken much time to modify his designs.

It seemed to be working well so far. Bruce watched as Kal-El tugged against his restraints again. Kal-El’s tongue darted out to moisten his full bottom lip, a gesture that was part nervousness, part arousal. It was the exact same expression he’d worn when he’d looked up at Bruce, and said the words that had started this all...

_“Don’t stop.”_

*****

Clark yelped as Batman pinched his nipples, twisting none too gently. Twin lances of pain and pleasure twined, dancing down his nerves and sending a jolt straight to his cock. Batman did it again, a little harder, and Clark sucked his breath in through his nose as the sensation grew. This was new, so very new, on so many levels. It took all his control to keep his hands gripped to the top of the chair, to not simply grab at Batman, pull his face down to where Clark’s shaft pressed painfully against the fly of his too-tight pants.

No, he wanted Batman in control of this, in control of him. He liked not knowing what Batman was going to do next, especially when it involved using the point of that batarang to tease the very tip of his nipple.

Clark couldn’t help it—he whimpered. He whimpered in helpless delight as that cold steel scratched across his most sensitive flesh, and he could feel the red lines of rapture it painted over his skin. He hissed when it scraped across the tip of his nipple, up, then down, again, then again. It was so hard to sit still!

The batarang went lower, tracing a meandering path through the valleys of his abdominal muscles, until it came to the band of Clark’s pants. It teased the button, and Clark expected Batman to slice it off, as it had the buttons on his shirt.

To his surprise, it drifted away, lower over Clark’s hips, down his straining thighs. Batman was pointedly ignoring Clark’s erection, and the realization was both maddening and arousing. Anticipation thrummed hotly through Clark as the tip of the blade found the line of muscle and followed it down to his knee.

There was a slight stab, enough to make him flinch, and then the sound of fabric tearing. Clark gasped as the batarang sliced though the slacks as easily as his heat vision through iron. It sliced again, and again, carefully shredding the fine fabric. Even through his excitement, Clark felt a pang of remorse for the fine garment.

“You’ve ruined your pants,” Clark rasped out.

Clark smelled the mint on Batman’s breath as he brought his face closer to Clark’s, and he resisted the urge to lean forward blindly, try to capture a kiss.

“I have more,” Batman chuckled, and ran his bare hand up the slit in the fabric he’d made.

Clark’s head swam as Batman’s hand massaged Clark’s inner thigh. It felt almost more intimate than if he were simply naked, that strange feeling of his secrets being peeled away from him a layer at a time. While he stroked with one hand, Batman used the batarang to slice open the fabric on Clark's other leg. Within moments, the pants were in tatters, protecting only his lower legs and his groin.

When Batman finally pressed the flat of the blade over Clark’s straining erection, Clark couldn’t hold back his cry. His hips bucked forward slightly off the chair, aching for more contact.

“God...God please!” Clark didn’t realize he was speaking until he felt Batman’s finger pressing on his lips again. He couldn’t help himself. He sucked it into his mouth, begging silently with his tongue and his lips.

It seemed to work. The batarang disappeared from his cock, replace a moment later by the warm pressure of Batman’s hand. Clark sucked even harder on Batman’s finger, moaning, as Batman squeezed and stroked through the fabric. Finally, he tugged at the zipper, roughly, yanking the ruined slacks open. Clark whimpered around Batman’s finger. _God please please please—_

Smooth, warm leather embraced Clark’s cock as Batman’s gloved hand drew him out of his tight briefs. Clark’s head fell back against the back of the chair, and Batman’s finger slid out from his mouth, giving him the freedom to groan fully. The gloved hand stroked him, gently at first, then more firmly.

Even without his super-senses, Clark could hear Batman’s breath, raspy with his own arousal. Clark imagined Batman’s cock—as he had too many times—straining inside his Kevlar codpiece, thick and veined and dripping with precum. This time, he didn’t push back the fantasy or tell himself it wasn’t right to think of his comrade in such an indecent way. He fed the fire instead, imagining the taste of it on its tongue, the girth of it stretching his mouth, his ass—

“You’re eager,” Batman chuckled darkly as Clark’s cock twitched in his hand. Batman’s thumb traced over the slit. Clark sucked in his breath as Batman's touch became slick, smearing a drop of precum over the sensitive head. “Tell me, Kal-El, what were you thinking just now?”

Clark felt his face heat under his blindfold. He bit his lower lip, suddenly embarrassed. It was one thing to think it, but to say it out loud—

Slick, moist heat engulfed the tip of Clark’s cock, a moment of sweet, glorious suction. Then it was gone, leaving his cock wet and cold in the dank cave air.

“Tell me.”

“I…” Clark trailed off, still unable to voice his fantasy.

As Clark gathered his courage, Batman sucked him again lightly, and Clark yelped as his whole world focused on that one perfect point of pleasure. Batman pulled away as Clark’s hips began to rise, and he held Clark in place by the base of his cock. Batman traced lazy circles around the head with his bare finger, his touch so maddeningly light Clark couldn’t help but try to buck up for more.

“Tell me,” Batman’s voice was soft, inviting, “and it could be yours, Kal-El. I will not judge you.”

Clark’s cheeks felt like a furnace, hot as his embarrassment, but he wanted more, so very, very much more.

“I was thinking of you,” he finally whispered, so quietly he wondered if Batman could hear him.

Batman rewarded him by lapping his tongue across the head of Clark’s cock.

“Thinking of me how?”

Clark moaned helplessly, nerves electric. “Thinking…thinking of your…” God, could he even say the word?

“My what?” Batman’s rough voice had an almost teasing edge, enough to be encouraging.

“Your cock.” The word felt foreign on Clark’s tongue, and he wondered if he’d ever spoken it out loud before. He tried it again. “I was thinking of your cock.”

If Batman was surprised, he didn’t say anything. He simply sucked Clark’s head again, this time for a full two seconds before pulling away to tease him with his maddeningly gentle caresses.

“Where?”

“Where?” Clark’s voice almost cracked. God, why was Batman making him say these things? Wasn’t having Superman bound and helpless enough of a power trip for him?

_You like it, though, Clark. You like it more than you thought you ever would._

“Where do you want my cock, Kal-El?”

Clark was dizzy, all the blood in his brain pounding in his cock. He felt lost in this darkness, as if he were floating in a black sea, and the only way out was to speak, to confess…

“Inside me!” Clark finally blurted. “In my mouth, in my--” Oh God, he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t say it out loud. It was too much, too much too much—

Clark’s train of thought came to a grinding halt as Batman’s mouth engulfed his cock fully, swallowing him down as far as he could. Clark cried out in relief, in bliss, his hips bucking up to drive himself into the slick, wet heat of his reward. This, this was enough, this was sheer, blinding heaven more perfect than he ever imagined in his wildest dreams.

As Batman sucked him in earnest, his bare hand slipped through a cut slit in Clark’s pants and found its way to the juncture between his thighs. It was over his briefs, but Clark could still feel the fingers as they probed under his full sac, down his perineum, tracing the crack until they found—

_Oh God!_

Clark’s orgasm slammed into him with the force of a freight train. His entire body coiled like a spring, and he struggled to hold it in.

_No, not yet! It can’t be over yet!_

It was no use, though, and he bucked and thrust and yelled his way to completion between Batman’s lips. Batman sucked him down in hard, rhythmic pulls, grunting as he greedily swallowed down Clark’s come. As soon as the last shudder coursed through Clark, Batman pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” Clark apologized through gasps. “I couldn’t…I couldn’t help--”

“Let go of the chair.”

Clark swallowed down his words, disappointment welling in his chest as he let his bound hands fall into his lap. He felt like a fool. It was over already. If he’d been able to hold out a little longer…

Batman’s fingers threading through his hair. He tugged, hard, enough to smart. Clark’s head instinctively followed the hand, confusion rising as he felt himself pulled forward out of the chair. Batman’s other hand pressed down on his shoulder, pushing Clark to his knees. He instinctively brought his hands up to steady himself, even bound as they were, and when his hands landed on Batman’s muscled thigh, a hot jolt of realization went through him.

_We’re not done!_

Something hard, hot and blunt nudged at Clark’s closed lips. He started, even as he knew what it was that was being offered him.

“You said you wanted this,” Batman’s voice was raspy, low and hungry as a lion’s growl. “Now show me how badly.”

Clark didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He simply opened his mouth, and let Batman slide his cock in.

Even spent as he was, he moaned around the rod of flesh, savoring the heft, the girth filling his mouth. This was no dream, no lonely fantasy. This was real and thick and twitching over his tongue, tasting of salt and musky with sweat. It was so raw, so masculine, so undeniably _Batman_. If Clark hadn’t already come, he would have right then.

Clark lost himself in sucking the cock in his mouth. He knew he was clumsy, but he did his best, drawing it in deep pulls, cradling the thick curve of it with his tongue. He clung to Batman’s thigh for balance, ignoring the spittle dripping down his chin, the ache of his knees. He could hear Batman groaning above him, guttural and raw, as needy a sound as Clark had ever heard.

Batman’s fist tightened in Clark’s hair, and he heard Batman’s groans come faster, harder. The thigh muscles under Clark’s hands tensed, and his stomach knotted in anticipation as he knew what was about to happen.  He sucked harder, his eyes screwing closed behind his blindfold as he worked furiously. He’d ached for this moment for so long, since he’d even known that this was something that could be done. To know that it was _him_ that he was going to first taste—

The flavor was thick and bitter, earthy and utterly human. It was intoxicating. It blasted over his tongue and shot to the back of his throat, flooding his mouth. He tried to swallow it, but found it hard with his mouth so full. He felt Batman’s come dribble out past his lips, down his chin, but he didn’t dare stop sucking. Nothing in the universe could make him stop pleasuring Batman, not when he was howling and bucking and clinging to Clark like a wild beast.

Batman’s hips slowed, and then finally stopped. The cock slipped out from between Clark’s lips, and as Batman stepped away Clark fell forward. He caught himself with his hands, and he dropped his head down onto his forearms to rest. He spat quietly, not wanting to offend, but the thick flavor was becoming sour the longer it remained on his tongue.

To his surprise, a tentative hand came to rest on his back.

“Are you all right, Kal-El?” Batman’s voice was as concerned as it had been that first night, when he’d been soothing away Superman’s injuries. “Was that too much?”

Clark was done with the blindfold. He nudged it up as he lifted his head. He blinked as he was greeted by the harsh light, and it took him a moment to focus on Batman’s face. He was masked, of course, as Clark had expected him to be. Under the black mask, though, his blue eyes were bright, almost vulnerable, and it made Clark’s breath hitch. If Batman’s eyes were so lovely, the rest of him must be gorgeous. Clark wondered with a pang if he’d ever get to see for himself.

He pushed down his sudden melancholy, focusing instead on the sheer wonder of what he’d just experienced.

“It was perfect.” Clark smiled a bright, genuine smile.

To his utter amazement, Batman smiled back. Clark had never, not even once, seen Batman smile. It was almost more intimate that what they had just shared, and Clark had the wild impulsive desire to kiss those lips, taste the fleeting joy he’d managed to bring to Batman—

A quiet beeping interrupted his train of thought. Batman’s smile was instantly gone, replaced by his signature scowl. He turned his wrist to check a small watch-like device strapped to his bare wrist.

“What is it?” Clark asked. He pushed himself up, sitting back on his heels. He looked down at the shredded remains of his slacks, the open fabric of shirt and shook his head in amazement. Those slacks were probably worth more than the rent on Clark’s Metropolis apartment, and Batman had sliced them like paper. Money was obviously not much of an object for Batman.

 “Work,” Batman replied curtly. He leaned down, and pressed a hidden button on the cuffs with his bare hand. They snapped open easily. Clark was a touch disappointed. It felt like he had just gotten here, and already they were finished. He supposed he was lucky to have gotten this much.

“Where are we needed?” Clark asked, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been.

Batman fiddled with the chain at the nape of Clark’s neck, and the medallion slid from around his neck. Batman caught it easily as it fell, swooping it up in his gloved hand before Clark could even see it. Then he stood, striding back to the table. As he adjusted himself back into his briefs, Clark heard the clink of the medallion and cuffs being dropped back into the lead-lined box, then the slide of wood against wood as he slid open the drawer on the table.

“I’m needed in Gotham. I’m sure you’ll find somewhere you’re needed.”

Another finely tailored shirt and pair of slacks landed in front of Clark, as well as a small, white towel. He looked up from them, dazed, in time to see Batman’s back as he strode into the darkness of the cave. He was leaving Clark shredded, sweaty, and stunned to compose himself alone—again. Clark’s heart squeezed, tightening around the growing emptiness where just moments before, Batman had been.

“Batman, wait.” Clark didn’t know what he was going to say, only that he needed something—anything to cling to, to keep the darkness at bay.

“I need to go.” To Clark’s surprise, his voice held the slightest touch of regret. He didn’t stop moving, though. “You need to recover.”

“I’m fine!” Clark insisted. He did feel fine, his powers almost fully normal again. He pulled himself to his feet. He staggered slightly, his leg muscles protesting. “Don’t walk away from me again like this. Please.”

To his surprise, Batman stopped. His head cocked towards Clark, not quite turning all the way, but just enough for Clark to see the thin line of Batman’s lips, the narrow slit of one eye as it studied Clark. It pierced through Clark, disorienting him with its coldness. Batman didn’t need kryptonite cuffs to weaken him—he only needed that stare.

“Is this…I mean…are we finished?” Clark hated how he stammered. He truly felt like the bumbling, mild-mannered man he pretended to be.

To Clark’s relief, the corner of Batman's lip curled up oh-so-slightly. “Was that not enough for you?” Batman’s gaze flickered down to Clark’s crotch, the soft white bulge standing out against the shredded black fabric. “Or are your appetites as unending as your strength?”

Clark blushed. “Yes, I’m…more than satisfied. But I just wanted to know if...if we…” he swallowed hard.

Batman took pity on him. “You want to meet again like this?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

Batman was quiet for a long moment. “This is a distraction, Kal-El. One neither of us can afford.”

Deep down, Clark knew Batman was right. How many crimes had been committed, how many crises allowed to happen in this hour of escape they’d allowed themselves? Clark had long ago had to come to peace with the fact that he could never save everyone, despite all his great powers. He needed to earn money, to see his family, to take some sliver of time for himself.

“I…I need this. I need to know what it’s like to be human, if I am to serve humanity.” He knew it was a lame excuse, but still, plausible. “I need…” He trailed off, unable to voice the deepest truth of them all-- _I need_ you _, Batman._

After an eternity, Batman nodded, a short, curt gesture. Then he turned, and strode into the darkness.

Uncertainty gnawing at him, Clark couldn’t help but blurt, “So, you’re sure? How will I know when you want to meet again?”

Batman’s voice drifted from the blackness, rough as usual, but softened with the hint of promise.

“Trust me, Kal-El. You’ll know.”


	4. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Batman, let me see you. Let me see your face.”_
> 
> **NSFW**

It was a batrang. Of course.

Batman had attached a tiny green beacon to one of his batarangs, one that emitted a frequency so high that only Superman’s sensitive ears could pick it up. Roughly once a month he’d catch sight or sound of it when he was flying over Gotham, sticking out of the side of a water tower or skyscraper.

Clark would show up an hour later at the cave, wearing the slacks and shirt he’d left in the time before. And each time, he’d leave in a new set, the old ones torn to shreds by Batman’s blades. He could have taken them off, he supposed, but it was part of the ritual now, letting Batman strip away his identity and claim him as his own.

Out of curiosity, he’d looked up the clothing label online. He’d been right in his suspicions, the garments were expensive. Very expensive. So expensive that they were custom-made.

Unable to help himself, Clark had visited the tailor in Gotham, pretended to be interested in ordering a suit. He knew he’d never be able to afford one on his reporter’s salary, and he couldn’t help but feel slightly out of his depth as he entered the posh store. He may be Superman, but at heart Clark Kent was a corn-fed farm boy. As he stood before the three-way mirror while the tailor measured him, he caught his reflection in the polished glass. A strange feeling twisted in his heart, as if he’d just overheard something he shouldn’t have. He realized that Batman must have once stood in this spot--without his armor, his mask, his identity. This mirror had seen Batman’s true face. Clark, who had so thoroughly given himself over to him, never had.

The thought nagged at the back of his mind, insistent and poisonous. The seed of uncertainty grew each time he met with Batman. He would study Batman’s face after the blindfold came off, memorizing tiny scars, the lines around his mouth, and even the patterns of his stubble. He knew that it was foolish to think that he could pick Batman out of all the millions of men in Gotham just by his mouth, even if he could narrow it down to those who could afford thousand-dollar shirts.

Even more importantly, though, he didn’t want to find the man behind the mask by playing a city-wide game of detective. He wanted Batman to show him—to trust him. Clark didn’t know what he else he could do to encourage him, though. He’d already given Batman everything he could, save for the secret identity he wore to protect the ones he loved. Batman knew Clark’s true name, has seen his darkest secrets. Why couldn’t he share even a tiny bit of himself with him?

****

“How does it feel, Kal-El?” Bruce asked, his voice a low growl. “How does it feel to be so helpless?”

Kal-El whimpered, swaying slightly as he tried to hold his balance in his bonds. Bruce hadn’t made it easy for him, stringing him up by his cuffs so that he had to stand on his toes to keep balance. Bruce wasn’t sadistic, though, there was a bar for Kal-El to grab, to keep his full weight from pulling on his bound wrists. But the pose stretched out his naked body, every muscle, every inch of skin—except for those hidden by the blindfold—exposed to Bruce’s hungry eyes.

This was the fourth time he’d had Superman—Kal-El—like this, and still it didn’t get any less surreal. Bruce had half expected Superman to stop coming to these meetings, or for Bruce to come to his senses and stop sending the invitation. But every month, he found himself dropping the batarang somewhere he knew Kal-El would find it, and an hour later, Kal-El would arrive. Batman would greet him with new restraints, games, and sensations. Bruce worried that he would push Kal-El too far, but his hunger—for both pleasure and pain—seemed limitless.

Bruce raised his gloved hand and adjusted the dials on the device strapped to his wrist. He’d created it after some careful research and tests, an electric-glove that sent low-level currents wherever it touched. He’d been toying with Kal-El for the better part of an hour, making Kal-El dance and yelp as he fondled him with electric jolts. Bruce ran his hand across Kal-El’s right buttock, enjoying how he jumped, how his muscles twitched, how he whimpered as he swayed.

Kal-El struggled for balance, and as his hips turned Bruce caught the gleam of metal from under the dark thatch of pubic hair. He’d not only cuffed and collared Kal-El tonight, but he’d added a new restraint—a ring clamped around the base of his erect cock and tight balls. There was no kryptonite there—the organs too sensitive to risk exposing to the stone—but it worked just as powerfully. Kal-El had almost swooned when he’d snapped it on. Wait until Batman touched it with the electric glove.

 _“Do you hear what you’re thinking Bruce?”_ A dark voice in the back of Bruce’s mind growled. _“Batman isn’t about pain, or about kinky sex games. You’re perverting everything you’ve worked so hard to cultivate.”_

Bruce pushed back against his thoughts, though guilt gnawed at his belly. He knew he was skating a thin edge, dangerously mixing his personal and private lives. Why was he putting himself—and Kal-El—through this?

“Again…please…” Kal-El moaned. He turned, trying to face Bruce, his expression one of pure rapture. Sweat gleamed on his cheeks, trickling down the long column of his throat. He was so damned perfect, everything that Bruce had ever dreamed about in a man: strong, smart, kind...and a deviant streak a mile wide.

That was why Bruce did this: because even billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne could never deserve someone so perfect, so powerful. Only Batman—the dark idea, the symbol—could.

So, Batman used the spray bottle on the table to spread another fine mist of cold water over Kal-El’s abdomen, enjoying how he twitched in anticipation. When Bruce applied the glove, Kal-El writhed shamelessly, his cock twitching as Bruce stroked lower and lower.

“Are you ready, Kal-El?” Batman asked. He tapped his fingers across Kal-El’s pubis, making him leap.

Kal-El swallowed hard, licked his lips. How many times had Bruce been tempted to kiss those full, strong lips? How many times had he resisted? For everything they had done together…it was still a bridge he wasn’t ready to cross. It was too intimate. Too familiar. Too Bruce. Batman did not kiss.

_But Batman tortures with toys he invented himself? Batman plays these twisted games? You’re deluding yourself. You’re sick and warped, the darkness finally corrupting your soul—_

“Do it,” Kal-El whispered, his voice tight with anticipation. “Do it, Batman.”

_And you’re dragging Superman down into your filth with you._

Batman touched his fingertips to the metal band around the base of Kal-El’s cock.  His muscled body arched, his head flew back, and he let out a rich, guttural cry that was half moan, half scream.  Droplets of sweat and water flew from his body as he writhed, his feet scrabbling. His biceps strained as he struggled to hold himself up, and Bruce knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.

Bruce let go, and turned off the device. He carefully removed the glove, watching Kal-El as he sagged in his bonds, panting. He could see the quaver in his muscles, the exhaustion threatening to engulf him. Batman had indeed pushed him to the brink this night. It was time for his reward.

“You did well, Kal-El,” Bruce said. He positioned himself in front of Kal-El, and ran a tender hand across his sweaty cheek, down to the sharp jut of his jaw. He snaked out his thumb, letting the pad of it brush against the plump bottom lip, before dropping his hand straight down to Kal-El’s cock. “Now let’s see just how much you really liked it.”

It took less than ten hard strokes for Bruce to make Kal-El come, straining and moaning and crying his name. No, not _his_ name. Batman’s name. Bruce fought the hard knot in his belly, instead focusing on the feral beauty of Kal-El’s face in rapture, the intoxicating musk of his sweat, the feel of his semen slicking Bruce’s hand as he stroked him. Bruce’s own neglected erection gave an insistent twitch, but he resisted the urge to rub himself against Kal-El’s muscled thigh. Instead, he focused on Kal-El, watching as he spent himself utterly onto Bruce’s hand, his jism spattering across Bruce’s clothed leg and onto his boot.

When Kal-El finished, his head sagged forward onto his chest, his entire body going slack. He winced as his full weight pulled against the titanium cuffs, and Bruce hurried to undo the chain that held them up. He lowered Kal-El carefully, letting him find his feet, then slowly lowering him to his knees. Kal-El leaned fell forward onto his forearms, resting his head on them as he panted. In that position his bare ass pointed up into the air, spread open and inviting. Bruce swallowed hard, every nerve in his body thrumming in hunger. It had been a long hour for him, too, but with Kal-El as spent as he was, Bruce didn’t think it wise to put him through more. Electo-play was serious business.

“Batman?” Kal-El whispered, his voice uncertain as he lifted his head, blindfold still in place. “Where are you?”

“I’m here.” Bruce stepped closer to Kal-El.

“You’re not finished.”

“I think we should be.” Bruce said quietly.  “You’ve had enough for one night.”

Kal-El shook his head. “No. You need--”

“I’m fi--”

“Take me.”

Bruce’s entire body froze. Had Kal-El just said...

“Take me,” Kal-El repeated. His voice was quiet, but sure. “I want you inside me.”

Bruce swallowed hard. God, he wanted to, more than anything in the world, to bury his aching length between those perfect buttocks. But it was a line they hadn’t crossed yet. If kissing was too intimate, then penetrating Kal-El was far beyond that.

“Please. I…I want to give this to you.”” Kal-El arched his back up, spreading his cheeks even further. Bruce had to step back to keep himself steady as all the blood—and rational thoughts—fled from his brain.

Before he knew what he was doing, Bruce was kneeling behind Kal-El’s spread legs, the bottle of lubricant he kept in the drawer in his hand. He had his cock out of his leggings, and was rubbing it against the swell of Kal-El’s ass. Bruce groaned deep in his throat, his nerves crackling with want. God, he was so close, so dangerously close to giving in. He ran his bare hands over him, relishing the way Kal-El's muscles rippled under his hands as he flexed backwards again. Bruce had dreamed of this moment so very many times. Now it was being offered to him freely.

His cock twitched, falling of its own volition into the crack between the cheeks. He couldn’t help himself, he sawed his length up and down the sweat-dampened cleft, loving how Kal-El jumped every time the tip of his cock brushed against the puckered entrance. He uncapped the bottle and poured the lube between them, and friction became glide between their rubbing flesh. He toyed with Kal-El’s hole, rubbing the skin, stretching it, preparing it to take his girth.

Kal-El was whimpering freely, straining backwards to suck Bruce’s fingers inside himself, begging with his body and his being, driving Bruce right up to the razor’s edge of his control.

“Take me,” Kal-El whispered, “take me, please.”

It was the nudge that drove him over the edge. With a snarl, Bruce lunged forward, gripping Kal-El’s hips as his cock pressed into the loosened ring of flesh. Kal-El’s head shot up, a wild cry unlike anything Bruce had heard tearing from his throat. It fueled the dark fire raging inside Bruce. He pushed harder, unable to stop himself as Kal-El’s body enveloped him with moist heat. It was good, so goddamned good!

“Turn me over!” Kal-El cried out.

Bruce forced himself out of the slick heaven of Kal-El’s body only long enough to comply with his request. Even with his hands bound, Kal-El lifted and spread his legs, inviting Bruce into him. Bruce groaned as he pushed into the tight ring of flesh again, his entire being centered on the sweet sensation. He looked down at Kal-El’s face, at the rapture twisting the gorgeous features under his blindfold.

_You’re fucking Superman, Bruce._

“Harder.” Kal-El moaned.

Bruce slammed into Kal-El, again and again, losing himself in the moment, in the heat, in the hardness of the body underneath him. It was like some strange, surreal dream, especially when Kal-El looked at his with those luminous blue eyes—

Kal-El had pushed up his blindfold, and was staring at Bruce with an intensity that bordered on mania. He reached up with his bound hands, even as he writhed harder under Bruce, reaching for his face, his mask.

“Batman, let me see you. Let me see your face.”

Bruce could do it. Right now. While he was buried inside Kal-El, while they were locked in this most intimate of acts. He could reveal his true face to the man he most admired, cared for, desired—

_And when he sees you’re just a man, and not a God like him, what then?_

With a snarl, Bruce grabbed Clark’s bound wrists, and slammed them back down to the ground above his head. Pinning him with the weight of his body, Bruce pounded into Kal-El, hard, forcing himself to the finish line before he gave into the temptation to release his secrets as well as his seed.

He pulled out a second before he came, emptying himself on Kal-El’s belly in great, heaving spasms. It didn’t seem right to finish inside, not now. Not after he’d denied him his one request. He didn’t even give himself time to rest. Still quaking under the force of his orgasm, Bruce rolled off Kal-El without looking at him. Now that it was done he felt slightly ill, guilt and shame gnawing at him. He shouldn’t have given in. Not like that.

“Release me,” Kal-El said softly.

It was the first time he'd ever asked to be uncuffed. Bruce did it without hesitating, reaching up to unsnap the restraints around Kal-El’s wrists. Kal-El immediately rolled away from him. He took a couple deep, ragged breaths, composing himself. His cock was half-hard again, and the guilt doubled in Bruce’s belly. Yet another way he’d disappointed him.

Bruce staggered to his feet, shoving his clothes back into place as he headed for the table where he kept his towels and clean changes of clothing. The silence between them stretched on for an eternity, Bruce’s tongue held in place by shame.

“I’ve given you everything, Batman.”

Bruce finally dared a look at Kal-El, and he saw that he had removed the kryptonite medallion. He held it cradled in his hands.

“I’ve given you my body,” he continued, “my surrender. Even my birth name.”

God. Bruce had thought it was some Kryptonian nickname. Not that it was Superman’s true name. He felt even sicker.

“You can’t even let me see your face.” Kal-El slowly stood, wincing. Bruce was already moving towards him, but Kal-El found his feet. He swayed a bit, but he managed to pull himself to his full, imposing size as he stepped over to Bruce. Despite his shame, Bruce forced himself not to cower. Batman did not cower.

_Even when you have wronged the person you have ever been most intimate with, Bruce?_

 “I had hoped that with time, perhaps you could trust me as I trusted you.” Kal-El gently placed the medallion on the table, fingers lingering for a moment before sliding away. “That by offering you my--” Kal-El swallowed hard, --my _all_ , that you would finally offer a shred of yourself in return.”

Kal-El reached for the folded clothes on the chair, dressing himself in his borrowed trousers and dress shirt. 

“I can’t do this anymore.” Superman said quietly. His sky-blue eyes met  Bruce’s, and there was such sadness in them that Bruce almost reached up to tear off the mask that had become a wall between them. Almost. Instead, Bruce forced himself to make a curt nod, even as a part of his heart died to see that medallion on the table.

Superman began to walk away, his head held high, his shoulders back. It took everything Bruce had not to call after him.

Superman stopped. He turned his head slightly.

“Thank you. For everything.”

Then, with a leap, he rose into the air, and flew out of the cave for the last time.


	5. The Journalist and the Playboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Quite the suit you have there.”_
> 
> _Clark looked up, half expecting to see another reporter smirking down at him._
> 
> _It was Bruce Wayne._

The midnight wind whipped around Batman as he stood at the top of the Gotham Bridge, stinging the exposed bottom half of his face. He ignored the discomfort, long used to Gotham’s cold nights. Even in spring the wind had a bite to it, a hint of frost that never seemed to completely thaw.

It was quiet tonight. He’s stopped a robbery, thwarted an arms deal, and made sure a college student made it back to her car without ever knowing about the stalker who had been about to make his move. He’d decided to take a detour by the bridge on his way back from the university to East Gotham. There was one errand he had to take care of. Something he’d been putting off far too long.

Balancing himself carefully, he reached into one of the pouches on his belt and pulled out a small, grey box. It felt heavy in his hand, burdened with weight beyond its cargo. It was time he stopped carrying it around. He looked down at the black water of the river below. All it would take would be one tilt of his hand, and it would be over. Gone.

Like _he_ was.

Kal-El.

He knew he shouldn’t open the box. Not again.

But he did. He always did.

The green glow of the bat-shaped medallion cut through the blackness atop the bridge, bright and clean as a star. Batman’s heart dove into his belly, and his stomach knotted around it tightly in a fist of regret.

It had looked so damn perfect against Kal-El’s skin, nestled between his straining pectoral muscles, making his sweat look like emeralds sliding over two perfect sand dunes—

Batman wrenched his head to the side, as if he could physically dodge his own memories.

_You want to remember something, Bruce? Then remember that hopelessness in Kal-El’s eyes when he realized the man he’d trusted with everything couldn’t trust him with anything in return. Remember how you broke his spirit, his hope…his heart._

The fist of ice in Bruce’s belly knotted so hard he could barely breathe. He looked down at the medallion, willing his fingers to let it go.

His wrist beeped, the Batcomputer alerting him to trouble nearby. Batman snapped shut the lid of the box, and jammed it back into the pouch on his belt. He was being maudlin again, a luxury that he couldn’t afford. Not when there were criminals to stop, justice to dole out. He had to focus on what was important—the mission—not how he’d driven away the one person he’d ever let get close to him. He’d learned his lesson the hard way, as he always did. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

He leapt off the bridge, snapping his cape so the material stiffened into its gliding shape, and he soared out over the water towards the harbor.

He couldn’t help himself, though. As he flew through the night, he looked up at the moon, and wondered, for one fraction of a second, if _he_ was up there, and had seen the glint of green against the Gotham skyline.  

****************

“Don’t you dare screw this up, Clark!” Lois’ admonition ended in a deep, barking cough that was so loud Clark had to pull the phone away from his ear. It was almost ten seconds before he could bring the phone back up. “This is the Planet’s one shot to get an exclusive with Gotham’s golden boy.”

“I know.” Clark ducked and wove out of the train station and out into downtown Metropolis. Years of living in the city had honed his urban senses, and he easily navigated the crowded avenue, even while on the phone.

“I’m serious, Clark. The Planet has been trying to get a sit-down with Bruce Wayne since Waynetech announced the Atmospheric Moisture Collector. Sending you to cover this stupid fundraiser is just a foot in the door.” Lois’ voice held a slightly pleading edge. “God, of all the times to get the flu!”

Clark silently agreed. Of the two of them, Lois was the quicker, sharper—and definitely more attractive—of the two reporters. Knowing Wayne’s reputation as a notorious playboy, a lovely lady reporter was bound to get closer than clumsy, mild-mannered Clark Kent.  It was sexist, but it was true.

“He’s going to be swarmed with reporters,” Lois coached, “this is no time for your Midwestern politeness. If you get a shot, get in there!”

“Thanks for the pep talk, but I’m almost there. I’ve got to go.” He looked up, eyeing the paparazzi buzzing around the entrance to the five-star hotel the fundraiser was being held in. Jimmy Olsen was waiting, already snapping pictures of the celebrities arriving in their fancy cars. “I see Jimmy. I’ve got to go. We’ll be fine.”

“Tell him to--” Clark cut her off by ending the call. Lois was an ace reporter, but she had no faith in Clark. To be fair, it was hard to trust your colleague when he could predictably scoop your biggest stories—without being able to tell you how. It burned her to no end to have to hand this assignment to him.

For once, though, Clark would have been happy to let her have this. Society pieces were definitely not his forte, and though this was just a way to get closer to Wayne to get a real story, he still felt woefully out of his depth.

“Hey there, Clark,” Jimmy greeted him, casting him a quick look. He did a double take. “Wow, that’s what you’re wearing to this thing? I thought Miss Lane told you to dress up a bit.”

“I did. What’s wrong with it?” Clark asked innocently, knowing full well what was wrong with his suit. It was unfashionable and unflattering, an off-the-rack outfit that Clark had picked up precisely because of those traits. It was a modest, bumbling reporter’s idea of fancy outfit, a dark brown three piece with a striped tie. At least he hadn’t gotten the powder blue tux with the ruffles.

Jimmy just shook his head, casting a furtive look down at his own sleek suit. It was a size too big, but it was quality, and Clark wondered who Jimmy had borrowed it from.

“At least Wayne won’t have trouble remembering who you are,” Jimmy sighed. “Come on. Let’s join the pack.”

Clark and Jimmy elbowed their way into the crowd of reporters, Clark careful not to push too hard, lest he send them flying like little plastic soldiers.

_It’d be a nice time to have that medallion of Batman’s wouldn’t it?_

Clark felt heat rising to his cheeks. Now was certainly not the time or place to be thinking of his strange liaison. It had been over for weeks--months at this point--and thoughts of Batman would still pop into his head at the most inopportune times, in the most unlikely of places. He hadn’t even seen him in that time, and deep down, he knew it would be a very, very long time until he did again.

“It’s him! It’s Bruce Wayne!” someone shouted. The crowd of reporters surged forward like a tide against the protective railing, and Clark let himself be carried along with them. Tall as he was, it was easy to see over their heads, and he got a good look of the famous billionaire as he stepped out of his sporty yellow Lamborghini. He came around the car, giving the flock of reporters an easy smile as he swiveled the passenger side door up to reveal a stunning knockout of a woman. She stepped out, all legs and smiles and shining sequins, and when someone identified her as a famous Italian fashion model, the crowd went even more wild.

“Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne!”

“Bruce! Over here!”

“Bruce! Any response to--”

It was a frenzy, like sharks feeding on a carcass. Clark had no idea what he could do to get the man’s attention. He was striding up the red carpet, model on his arm, looking as calm and collected as if he were on a private stroll. He wasn’t going to stop for anything.

Clark was so intent on his subject that he didn’t notice the barricade was giving way until it was too late. The metal gate crashed to the ground under the crush of frantic reporters. The row of people in front of Clark began to fall with the gate, their quick questions becoming surprised screams. Behind them, other bodies surged forward on the momentum, breaking around Clark like a wave on a rock. He knew he should fall forward, too, keep the illusion of human weakness, but the people on the ground were about to be trampled if he didn’t do something.

Pretending to fall as well, Clark actually lunged forward onto one knee. He reached down, scrabbling through the squirming bodies until he found the metal gate underneath. Then, he began to pull it up slowly, partially to give time for the people he was pulling up to find their footing, and partially to keep it from looking too easy. He could have lifted that gate with all twelve people on it with one finger.

Suddenly, his task got a little easier, the gate raising up faster to meet him as he got to his feet. He looked up, expecting to find the beefy security guards helping push the barrier into place.  Surprise rippled through him when the face that greeted him was none other than Bruce Wayne’s.

“Calm down, everyone!” Bruce called out to the reporters as he pushed the barrier back into place. “Really, I know Gianna is gorgeous, but there’s no need to start a riot over her!”

Relieved laughter rang through the crowd, the flash of bulbs increasing on all sides. Bruce Wayne was the hero of the night, and that suited Clark just fine. No one would realize what he had done.

However, before Bruce stepped back to let the guards take over securing the gate, he scanned through the throng of recovering reporters until he found Clark.  Bruce’s cool blue gaze flickered down to Clark’s hands, and Clark realized he was still holding onto the gate. He let it go quickly. Something flashed in Wayne’s eyes, something akin to understanding, and he gave Clark an almost imperceptible nod. Clark blinked rapidly behind his crooked glasses, unable to help the heat rising to his cheeks. There was something about Wayne’s eyes, something that made Clark feel like he was scrutinized, peeled apart--

_You’re being paranoid now, Clark._

Then Wayne was gone, back to escorting his lovely lady into the gala. Clark took a deep, shaking breath. Had Wayne seen how Clark had kept the accident from becoming a catastrophe? He couldn’t have, it had been utter chaos. Only someone with the keenest power of observation could have picked up on—

“Wow, that Mr. Wayne sure is strong!” Jimmy chuckled weakly in relief. “I was sure we were going to be trampled!”

A surge of guilt went through Clark when he realized that he hadn’t even thought of his friend’s safety. My, he was distracted these days, wasn’t he?

“Once the rest of the red carpet parade is over, we’ll go inside,” Jimmy said. He was already back to snapping pictures, this time on a blonde hotel heiress and her Hollywood actor boy-toy. “It should be a lot calmer in there, only a few of us got the special insider badges.”

Clark nodded silently, watching the back of Wayne’s perfectly cut black hair as he disappeared into the hotel. What kind of billionaire playboy put his personal safety at risk to help a bunch of jackal reporters? Sure, the photos were probably going viral now on the internet, beefing up his image, but that was more than a publicity stunt. Wayne had actually looked concerned. Now, more than ever, Clark wanted to find a way to talk to him.

Wanting and doing were two different things, though. True, he and Jimmy had the special passes that allowed them entrance to the gala, but only so far as the foyer. They were blocked by security from the ballroom, which meant they could only talk to anyone who wanted to be talked to. That didn’t seem to include Mr. Wayne.

Three hours had passed, and Clark had interviewed every actor, athlete, and minor celebrity eager to promote some film or project. His favorite was the basketball player with the line of cologne that smelled like a cross between a locker room and a spice rack. His nose was still tingling from the hearty whiff he’d been forced to take to be polite. He’d let Jimmy off the leash, and he was off trying to get a good picture of the inside of the gala from their limited vantage point. Clark was sitting in the corner flipping through his notebook, feeling every bit the failure. Lois was never going to let him hear the end of this.

“Quite the suit you have there.”

Clark looked up, half expecting to see another reporter smirking down at him. 

It was Bruce Wayne. 

Clark jumped up to his feet, his notebook fluttering to the floor as he stuck his hand out to shake.

“I could give you the name of my tailor, if you like it that much.”

Wayne laughed as he shook Clark’s hand. The throaty chuckle warmed Clark more than he expected it to. Perhaps he was more sensitive about the suit than he let on.

“You’re funny. I like that,” Wayne said. His lip curled up into a sly half-smile. “Funny and strong.”

So he had seen what Clark had done! Clark thought fast. It wasn’t hard to blush, but he curled his body up even more, making himself look smaller and meeker as he gave a polite shrug.

“I just stopped the gate from falling all the way,” Clark lied. He shuffled his feet for good measure. “You’re the one who pulled it back up, Mr. Wayne.”

Wayne was quiet for a long moment, and Clark wondered if he’d played his act too hard. He looked up at Wayne through his thick glasses, and gave a shy smile.

“I guess those evenings at the gym have been paying off, huh?” Clark laughed hesitantly. “I don’t know my own strength sometimes!”

Wayne seemed satisfied with Clark’s answer, and he nodded. “It’s just nice to see a reporter who’s more interested in the safety of others than getting the scoop.”

“It’s not every day you see such a famous face rush in to save the day, either.” Clark said. “Most of your friends would have run away rather than help.”

Wayne looked slightly uncomfortable, his smile sagging slightly. Clark was losing him. He had to act fast.

“That’s what makes you different, Mr. Wayne. You care. It’s why WayneTech’s developing the Atmospheric Moisture Collector—and offering it for free to developing nations in need.”

One of Wayne’s perfectly shaped black eyebrow arched over his frosty blue eye. “We haven’t gone public with those plans for the AMC.”

“I know. But why else would the Wayne Foundation be helping organize farming co-ops with non-governmental organizations in nations with less than a 35% annual crop yield? ”

Bruce’s gaze was sharp and shrewd as a hawk’s. “You’ve done your homework, Mister…”

“Kent. Clark Kent.”

Wayne’s second eyebrow rose to meet his first. “Clark Kent? From the Daily Planet? That explains it.”

It was Clark’s turn to arch a curious eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You wrote that first interview with Superman when he appeared three years ago. More recently, you did the expose on Luthor Corp dodging international environmental policies. Powerful stuff there.”

Clark didn’t have to fake the flush that crept up his face. “I didn’t realize you were a reader.”

“It’s like they say, the Wall Street Journal for the financials, the Gotham Gazette for the local angle, and the Daily Planet for the international news.” Wayne cocked his head. “If you don’t mind me asking, who did you piss off to be stuck with the society page detail?”

Clark could practically hear Lois shouting in his mind, telling him to keep his big mouth shut and think of some fun little lie. But that just wasn’t Clark’s style.

“Actually, I was sent here to find you, Mr. Wayne. The Planet’s been eager to get a sit-down with you, to talk about your project. Do you think you have a few minutes?”

Wayne was tapping his bottom lip with his finger, thinking. Clark tried not to stare too hard, though there was something about that mouth….something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on while he was distracted with his Clark Kent persona.

“Brucie! Oh Brucie, there you are!” Gianna the supermodel waved from across the foyer, and began to slink over. Damn. Time was up, and it seemed like Clark had blown it.

However, as Gianna draped herself over Wayne’s shoulder like a panther on a branch, the billionaire fixed his even stare on Clark.

“I’m leaving Metropolis tonight, but if you’re willing to travel to Gotham, I can give you a full hour. Say, lunch at the Gotham Room? Call my assistant and she’ll set up a date in two weeks.”

Excitement surged through Clark. Jackpot! He’d done it! At this rate, Perry would pay to send him to Paris for a month if it meant an exclusive with Wayne.

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne!” Clark stuttered, only half having to fake it. “I really appreciate this!”

“Don’t mention it,” Wayne said smoothly. He turned his back to go, but then cocked his head over his shoulder. His gaze raked over Clark’s brown suit. “So you know, the Gotham Room has a bit of a dress code. You may want to talk to your tailor.”

Clark gave an abashed smile. He’d show up in a chicken suit if he had to. “I’ll see what I can do.”


	6. The Suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Are you nervous?” Clark looked up, his full lips twisting in the most charming little smirk. His eyes seemed to twinkle behind his glasses, but it was hard to tell through the thick, distorted lenses. Bruce wondered what those eyes would look like, what shade of blue they truly were._

“Clark? Clark!”  Lois waved her hand in front of Clark’s nose. “Hello! Earth to Clark!”

Clark shook the fog from his head, bringing himself back to the present. He looked up at Lois sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. He looked down at his plate and at the Chinese take-out he’d barely touched. “I was a million miles away.”

“I know you get nervous before important interviews,” Lois said more gently. She gave Clark a shrewd little smile. “If you’re too nervous to handle a bigwig like Wayne, I’ll be happy to go to Gotham in your place.”

That got a grin out of Clark. “If I can handle an interview with Superman, then I can handle Bruce Wayne.”

Lois gave a dry chuckle as she got up to clear her plate. She was comfortable in Clark’s apartment—after all the late nights they’d spent working on deadlines together—and she started sealing up the white cardboard containers and putting them in the fridge.

“Clark, when’s the last time you’ve gone to the grocery store?” Lois called from the kitchen. “I think this milk is older than I am!”

Clark winced. He’d forgotten to clean out the fridge. He had been back so seldom lately, spending his off-work hours either saving the world as Superman or hiding in the Fortress of Solitude. At least there the silence and isolation was deliberate.

Lois emerged from the kitchen and eyed his still-full plate. “You feeling OK, Clark?”

“Yeah, I just had a big lunch today,” Clark lied. He didn’t need to eat, but he liked it, usually. These days, food just didn’t seem to give him the same pleasure. Nothing did. So he gave up, pushing back from the table. “Can you take a look at my questions again before you go?”

He went to his computer and pulled up his document, leaving it open for her to read. As much as they were rivals, they were also colleagues, and he trusted her journalistic skills. As she read through his questions, occasionally tapping in notes and corrections, Clark tried to look through his printed notes on WayneTech’s AMC. He’d only made it a few sentences before his mind started drifting again, back down into the darkness.

_“I’ve given you everything, Batman…you can’t even let me see your face.”_

It wasn’t Wayne that had him shaken, it was going back to Gotham City. Clark knew there was no way _he_ could find him, not in his disguise, but Clark knew he’d be wondering if he was watching from the shadows. He didn’t know what bothered him more—the thought that he could be…or that he wouldn’t be.

_It’s over. Let it go._

“Clark?”

 This time, Clark forced himself to look up the first time Lois called. She looked even more concerned than before.

“I finished. It all looks good.” She was quiet for a moment, and then she cocked her head, studying Clark. “Is everything OK?”

“Of course it is! I’m just nervous. Like you said.”

“No.” Lois shook her head. “I know you, Kent. I know what you’re like when you’re nervous, which is most of the time. This is something else.”

Genuine anxiety fluttered in Clark’s belly. He hadn’t said anything to anyone about what was going on with him. He was used to secrecy, but not like this.

“Is this about Susan Green?” Lois gave him a small, encouraging grin. “Look, I have it on good authority that an invitation to lunch would not be rejected entirely out of hand.”

Good. Let Lois think Clark was mooning over some office crush, instead of brooding over his break-up with the damn Batman.

Clark returned Lois’ smile, even though he didn’t feel it at all. “You know me too well, Lois.”

Satisfied, Lois turned back to Clark’s notes. “It says here that you’ll be having your meeting at the Gotham Room. What are you going to wear?”

Clark’s momentary relief turned into real panic. “Ummmm…”

Lois fixed Clark with an exasperated look. “Clark, your meeting is in two days! You haven’t bought anything?”

“Well, um, I’ve been really busy—”

“Where’s your closet?” Lois leaped up from her seat, and strode towards Clark’s bedroom. “Let’s see what we have to work with.”

Clark followed her meekly. If she thought his fridge was bad…

“Seriously, Clark?” Lois cried in dismay. She stood in front of his closet with her hands on her hips. “You seriously have nothing!”

“I have enough for work—”

“Nothing!” She repeated firmly. She pulled out the brown suit he’d worn to the gala. “And please tell me this is a Halloween costume for a used car salesman from the 1970s!”

“Actually, funny thing about that suit—”

“Hey!” She cut him off, reaching deep into the back of his closet. “This seems promising!”

Clark’s blood ran cold as Lois pulled out the hanger with the crisp white shirt and expensive black slacks—his borrowed clothes from Batman. Kal-El’s clothes. This last set had escaped destruction, and Clark had been unwilling to get rid of them. They weren’t his to dispose of. Though, he couldn’t seem to find time to return them to the cave, either.

“These will work perfectly!” Lois chirped, admiring the fine tailoring. “Why haven’t you worn these before?”

“They’re a bit small. I got them second-hand.” At least that much was true.

Lois thought for a moment. “You might be able to get them taken out in time. Do you have a tailor?” She rolled her eyes. “Of course you don’t.”

“Actually, I do know where I could take these,” Clark said slowly. “He’s even in Gotham.”

“Great!" Lois thrust the clothes into Clark’s hands. “Take a day off tomorrow, and see if you can get these fitted in time. If not, just buy something else. Put it on the company card. I’ll explain to Perry that it was a genuine emergency.”

************

The bell to the tailor shop chimed merrily as Clark shuffled in out of the whipping wind and rain. Though Metropolis and Gotham shared a coast, the weather always seemed harsher here in Gotham, even in the spring.

“Hello?” Clark called out. He brushed the drops of water off the garment bag that Lois had lent him. It had been a pain keeping track of it on the crowded train, and he’d be glad to have it out of his hands—for more reasons than one.

“Good afternoon, sir!” The tailor poked his head out from a burgundy curtain hanging in the back of the shop. “Please hang your coat on the hook by the door and I’ll be right with you.”

Clark did as he was instructed, tucking his laptop satchel behind his long, brown trench coat. It had been a gift from his parents last Christmas, when he’d told them he hadn’t taken the time to buy a new winter coat yet.

“I know you could get cozy in a glacier, Clark, but every man needs a nice coat,” his mother had admonished gently.

Clark took the moment alone to take off his glasses to wipe the moisture from them. He could only imagine how irritating it would be for someone who had to use glasses for their vision.

“Now, what can I do for you, young man?” The tailor emerged from the back, tall and lanky as a scarecrow. His face was kinder, though, his grey hair combed back neatly, and he was dressed in a clean, classic style—matching navy blue slacks and vest over a crisp, white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

“Um, I was here a few weeks ago.”

The tailor squinted at Clark through his silver-rimmed spectacles. “Ah, I remember you! Kent, wasn’t it? You came in for a fitting.” The tailor started flipping through his ledger.

“I didn’t order anything last time,” Clark admitted. He brought his garment bag over to the front counter. “I was hoping, though, that I could get your help with something.”

The tailor unzipped the garment bag easily, and pulled out the shirt and slacks. “Ah, I recognize my work.”

Clark nodded. “Would it be possible for you to take them out a bit? They’re just a little tight.”

The tailor fixed Clark with a shrewd look. “Put on a little weight, have we?”

Clark made himself blush. “No, um, actually, they weren’t made for me.”

“Hmm. A lucky find for you, then.” the tailor nodded in understanding, examining the seams of the shirt and slacks. “I should be able to take them out enough to fit you.”

“Great! Do you think they could be ready by tomorrow?”

The tailor laughed, though not unkindly. “You don’t give a man much to work with, do you? I’m afraid I’m busy through the end of the week.”

“Oh.” Clark’s heart sank. So much for saving the Planet the cost of his outfit. He reached for the clothes. There was no point, then, in getting them altered. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Now wait just a moment,” the tailor chided, putting his hand on the clothes to stop Clark. “Can I ask what you need these for?”

Clark swallowed hard. It was embarrassing to admit why he was in such a bind. However, there was something about the tailor that inspired Clark to be honest. Maybe because he was the first kind face he’d dealt with in Gotham all morning.

“I um, I’m a reporter for the Daily Planet,” Clark said. “I’ve got a lunch interview with Bruce Wayne at the Gotham Room tomorrow and this is the best I could come up with.”

The tailor looked thoughtful, studying Clark as he spoke.

“That’s a big opportunity for you, son.”

“I know,” Clark shrugged.

“The Gotham Room is a fancy place, even at lunch,” the tailor said thoughtfully. “Wait here.”

The tailor disappeared behind the curtain, leaving Clark no choice but to obey. His curiosity rose as the seconds ticked by.

“I’m not just any tailor, son,” the man called from behind the curtain. “My shop may be small, but I’m the best on the East Coast. I can make a suit that’ll fit you like you were born in it!”

Clark smiled. _So can my ma._

The tailor emerged, holding a dark garment bag. “I also design my own, from time to time.” He unzipped the bag, revealing the nicest suit Clark had ever seen. It was sleek and modern, like something out of a men’s magazine. Clark was no connoisseur of fashion, but his fingers suddenly itched to touch the inky material. It was so black, like a starless night—

_Like the sweet blackness of oblivion behind blindfolded eyes._

“Um,” Clark cleared his throat to clear his head, “it’s lovely.”

“Thank you. I’m not entirely happy with the lapels, and next time I think I’ll go with two buttons instead of—you know what, I’m just blathering now.” He looked at Clark meaningfully. “I think it would fit you.”

Clark chewed his bottom lip as he thought. He wanted the suit. He wanted it badly. For once, to not have to play the bumbling idiot, to actually shine for a moment as Clark Kent, not as Superman…no. It would be too rich a price to pay. If one of Batman’s dress shirts was nearly a thousand dollars, he could only imagine what this suit would cost. “I appreciate your offer, but I can’t pay you what it’s worth.”

The tailor nodded. “I know. Which is why I’m loaning it to you.”

Clark was utterly speechless. How could this man trust a complete and utter stranger with something so precious?

“You wear this to the Gotham Room tomorrow, and you tell everyone where you got it. I promise you, they will ask. You’ll be doing my business a favor.” The tailor continued.

“You’d…you’d trust me with this?” Clark asked.

“I do." The tailor smiled. "Work in my business for as long as you have, you get to know a man’s character by how he stands, how he looks at himself in a mirror. And you…you’re the type of nice guy who has a hero inside of you, just waiting to burst out.”

Clark ducked his head to hide his smile. Man. The tailor _was_ good.

 “What if I spill something on it?”

“You won’t.” The tailor held up the shirt and slacks, “because I’ll be holding these as collateral.” He gave Clark a shrewd look. “And your credit card number.”

Clark swallowed hard. It was tempting. So very tempting. For one afternoon, he could look the part, let Clark Kent be more than just a stuttering fool who pulls off the job at the last second. He could feel like…well, like Superman.

“Alright.” Clark nodded. “I’ll do it.”

************

 Bruce was scrolling idly through his smartphone as he waited for Clark Kent to arrive, reading up on the last few articles Kent had written. He was fifteen minutes early, more than anything to steal a few precious minutes alone and get into the proper head space. Bruce Wayne seldom gave interviews, not real ones that dealt with what his company was doing. Those he left to the PR people he paid handsomely.

But Clark Kent seemed different, even if Bruce couldn’t put his finger on why. Maybe it was his humble demeanor, so different than the brassy, in-your-face attitude he got from most reporters. Maybe it was his journalistic style, as Bruce was familiar with Kent’s skill with writing about difficult environmental and humanitarian issues. Bruce felt he could trust Kent to give Bruce a good interview, ask about more than just about his eccentric playboy activities. Kent actually seemed to care about Wayne Enterprise’s goals.

“Mr. Wayne? Your guest is here.” The maître d materialized beside Bruce, whispering in his ear.

Bruce nodded. “Bring him over.”

Bruce smiled to himself as he remembered the meek reporter’s bright smile when Bruce had agreed to the interview. Despite the horrid suit and the thick glasses, Kent could be a good-looking guy if he cleaned himself up, stopped slouching—

Bruce’s jaw literally dropped as Clark Kent entered the dining room. Gone was the frumpy joke of a suit, replaced with an elegant black two-piece. It fit him perfectly, showing off a surprisingly well-toned physique. He walked tall, practically striding, but above the crisp white shirt and red-and-black striped tie, Kent’s face still peered shyly from behind his thick glasses. They worked with the suit, though, lending him a touch of geek chic. He looked like some new tech millionaire who still clung to his hipster roots.

Bruce was the one who felt clumsy and awkward as he got to his feet, bumping the table with his knee and almost spilling his coffee.

“Mr. Kent,” Bruce said, trying to keep his voice even as he extended his hand.

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark replied in greeting, taking the offered hand. “Thank you for meeting me.”

When Kent’s warm hand touched his, Bruce’s heart did an unexpected back-flip. That was a surprise. True, Kent was downright dashing, but Bruce seldom found himself so powerfully attracted to men—

_\--unless they’re wearing blue tights and a red cape._

Bruce forced himself to clear his mind as he offered Kent the seat across from him. “I see you talked to your tailor.”

Clark gave a quiet laugh. “I did. He’s actually here in Gotham, Barton Tailor Shop.”

Bruce arched an eyebrow in surprise. “I use Joe Barton on occasion. He’s been making suits for my family for generations.”

Clark’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow, I didn’t know he was that old!”

Bruce chuckled. “It’s a family business. I remember Joe’s grandfather making suits for my Dad.” He could feel his smile fading, his words trailing off as in his mind’s eye he could see old Vincenzo kneeling in front of his father as he measured his inseam. Thomas turned to Bruce as he sat nearby, smiling down at him and telling him that soon, he’d need a suit like this, too--

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Clark’s quiet voice snapped Bruce out of his reverie. Bruce turned, surprised to see the sympathy on Kent’s face. How could he—of course he knew. He was a reporter, and the murder of Dr. Thomas and Martha Wayne had been international news. Bruce was used to awkward, empty condolences, but someone, hearing it from this sweet-faced journalist sent a pang through Bruce’s guarded heart. He looked genuinely remorseful. “I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”

“It’s all right,” he said, taking a deep breath and waving a dismissive hand. He fixed Clark with a smile, and he hoped it didn’t look as forced as it felt. “You couldn’t have known.”

The waiter arrived, cutting off the awkward moment before it could stretch on too long. They ordered, and Bruce noted how Kent only ordered a small salad, hold the dressing. This made Bruce even more curious about Clark. That broad, handsome figure wasn’t built on salads.

_Stop it!_

Bruce was glad that Clark was busy with setting up his digital recorder and his notepad, it gave him a few seconds to take a quiet, calming breath, try to get his pulse under control.

“Are you nervous?” Clark looked up, his full lips twisting in the most charming little smirk. His eyes seemed to twinkle behind his glasses, but it was hard to tell through the thick, distorted lenses. Bruce wondered what those eyes would look like, what shade of blue they truly were.

_I said, stop!_

Bruce pushed down the flood of conflicting feelings roiling through him. Now was neither the time nor the place to pin his lonely longings on this poor reporter who was just trying to do his job.

“A little nervous.” Bruce smiled ruefully, trying to cover up his struggle with mirth. “I haven’t done an interview in ages.”

Clark smiled reassuringly. “I’ll go easy on you. We’ll start simple.” He looked through his notes. “What inspired the idea for the AMC?”

“It happened when I was on a trip to Morocco. We were flying over from my private island near Mikonos, but the plane had a malfunction and we had to make an emergency stop in Tunisia…”

The interview was almost more like a conversation. Clark masterfully steered the discussion, one line of inquiry flowing easily into the next. They talked about the potential social implications and a bit about the research and development process.

“The odd thing is, we’ve been receiving some push-back from some powerful figures in Washington.”

Clark’s eyebrow cocked, even as his pen kept scribbling. “Let me guess, Senators David Blackwell, Susan Jones, and Jerimiah Livingston?”

“Why, yes.”

“Unsurprising. They’ve all taken some very large campaign contributions from one of Wayne Tech’s largest competitors.”

Wow. Clark’s mind was as sharp as he looked in his suit.

“My recent investigations have told me that LuthorCorp is attempting to design their own version of the AMC with plans to privatize it. If he gets it out before WayneTech does—”

“He won’t,” Bruce growled, surprised by his own vehemence. This was the part of being Bruce Wayne he hated the most—having to play by the rules of industry, government, and society. Things were so much more direct as Batman, he saw a problem and he solved it. “We have experts in enginee—”

Bruce’s train of thought was cut off when his watch emitted an urgent beep. Damn it. It was the Batcomputer. Batman was needed immediately in lower Gotham—a fire had broken out at a refinery, with all firetrucks fifteen minutes away. If he left now, he could be there in eight.

“I’m sorry, there’s something I urgently need to attend to.” Bruce was already out of his seat, signaling for the waiter, He was comporting his face into its usual practiced mask of apology, when he really looked at Clark. The reporter seemed stunned by Bruce’s abrupt change, his eyes glued to Bruce’s wrist.

“Your watch,” Clark murmured. “Where did you get it?”

 “Oh, this nifty little thing?” He forced a breezy chuckle. “It’s linked up to my calendar, the internet, even my music playlist. Ingenious device I picked up in Tokyo. I wish WayneTech had thought of it first!”

Bruce’s watch beeped again. The fire had caused an explosion. No time.

“I’m sorry, I really have to go!” Bruce jogged towards the door, already punching into his watch to call the Batmobile from its hidden location. Bruce felt a strange, sudden pang of regret. For once, he really didn’t want to leave an interview.

“Was everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Wayne?” The maître d’ called as Bruce streaked by.

“Excellent as always!” He called out. He stopped for a fraction of a second. “Send my guest the most expensive dessert on the menu, and put the whole meal on my tab.”

The maître d’ blanched. “But sir! We don’t do ‘tabs’!”

Bruce was already out the door, though, running towards the nearby alleyway where the Batmobile would be meeting him in 38 seconds. As he always did, he pushed every other thought out of his mind, though this time he found it hard to dismiss the image of Clark’s shrewd, blue eyes staring at him through those impossibly thick glasses.


	7. The Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Maybe, just maybe, Clark Kent was that rarest of birds—a truly honest man._
> 
> _That scared Bruce more than he admitted. The last time he’d met a truly honest man, he’d broken him._

It was late when Superman finally flew through the window of his tiny Metropolis apartment from his nightly patrol around the globe. It had helped clear his mind for a while, focusing on problems he could solve with his abilities--a tsunami stopped, an avalanche averted, a marriage saved by the secret application of a bouquet of roses to a windowsill.

But now he was home, and in a few hours he’d have to put back on his disguise, head to his job, and admit to his boss that he’d botched the biggest interview of his life. God, Lois was never going to let him hear the end of it, and Perry wouldn’t ever trust Clark again with an assignment this big. Not after Clark had let Bruce Wayne slip through his fingers.

Clark changed out of his uniform and took a quick shower, running through every detail of the interview in his mind. He had a lot to work with, but it wasn’t enough to make a truly compelling story. He needed more details, maybe even some data, and he could tell a story that would garner enough support in Washington to drown out Lex’s cronies. So many of the world’s problems could be solved by access to clean water, and if Bruce Wayne could deliver it, well, Clark would do everything in his—and Superman’s—power to make it happen.

Too bad the interview had ended so shortly after it had begun.

The irritating beep of Mr. Wayne’s watch echoed through his memory.  It was exactly the same frequency and pitch Batman’s wrist computer had made when it was calling him away on business, too. It was probably just a coincidence. Batman was all about his toys and gadgets, and it made sense he’d have the same sort of expensive Japanese watch as Bruce Wayne.  But the sound had affected Clark, more deeply than he could let on at the table. His memories had taken him back to that cave, to all the doubt and loneliness that would creep into his heart whenever Batman would toss a set of clothes at him and walk away without so much as a “thank you.”

_That was why you ended it, Kal-El._

Dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, he meandered over to the fridge. He wasn’t hungry—he was never hungry—but right now something sweet and comforting sounded good. He pulled the to-go box from the Gotham Room out of his fridge, and smiled at the memory of the waiter’s expression when Clark had asked him to box up the ostentatious dessert. He was probably the only person in history to take a gold-leaf encrusted chocolate mousse cake to go.

As he made his way back to the couch, Clark heard a slight buzzing from his desk. It was his cell phone, alerting him to a message he’d missed while he’d been out. Curious, he activated voicemail, expecting to hear Lois or Jimmy or his mother.

“Mr. Kent, this is Bruce Wayne.”

Clark was so surprised he almost dropped the dessert box. Which would have been a shame. The cake probably cost more than the carpet it would’ve stained.

“I wanted to apologize personally for having to rush out on our interview this afternoon. I have time to continue tomorrow afternoon from 3:15-3:55pm at the WayneTech labs, and I can send a car to the Daily Planet office in Metropolis to pick you up if you’ve left Gotham already.”

Clark was flabbergasted, scarcely able to believe his luck. He looked over to the garment bag hanging over his closet door, at the suit he was returning the next day. When the tailor had told him it would make an impression on Mr. Wayne, he hadn’t been kidding!

Clark’s heart was pounding in excitement, and he replayed the message just to make sure he’d heard it correctly. Well, he knew he had, but it was easier than admitting that he really just wanted to hear that strong, silky voice again.  Something in it made his stomach flutter, and it wasn’t just journalistic excitement. He was genuinely looking forward to seeing Bruce again, and Clark couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually looked forward seeing anyone like this.

_The last time you flew into that dark cave, knowing that Batman was in there, waiting for you._

Shaking his head to clear away the thought, Clark sat down at his desk to transcribe the notes from his head. He was going to have to have something that looked like he’d been taking actual notes when he saw Bruce tomorrow.

 

**************

“This is amazing.” Clark’s pen scribbled madly over his notepad, his gaze darting all around the WayneTech lab. He and Bruce stood behind a pane of bulletproof glass, looking in on the complex equipment and computer banks that monitored the prototype of the AMC. He was so excited he had to physically keep himself from writing as quickly as he could, lest the plastic tip of his pen melted from the friction, or tore through the notebook. It had happened once or twice before.

“That’s what I said the first time I saw it,” Wayne chuckled dryly, “and I designed it.” He wore a somewhat smug expression on his handsome face, his chest puffed out in pride. It was slightly off-putting, but then again, he was billionaire genius Bruce Wayne. He had every reason to be proud as a peacock, didn’t he?

“If we can get even one of these fully operational and in the field by the end of the year, we could increase the clean water supply in Tunisia by 77% within three months.”

“Impressive,” Clark repeated, shaking his head as he scribbled.

“It’s a big _if_ , honestly,” Wayne admitted slowly. Some of the swagger seemed to fade from him as his brow creased in concern. “We’re still working out a lot of kinks, and though we’re able to work some short-tern solutions, we need to find ways for local populations to be able to maintain these systems without…” he trailed off, a sheepish expression on his face.

“Without having to permanently station a team of engineers and maintenance workers,” Clark finished Wayne’s thought.

Wayne beamed, perking up immediately. “Exactly! We want this to be a tool to help communities help themselves without having to become another NGO in their backyards.”

Clark’s stomach fluttered as a flush of pleasure coursed through him. He’d impressed Mr. Wayne. Why did that matter so much? Clark had interviewed other high-profile subjects before, and none had left him feeling quite so truly flustered.

_Because none of them had a smile quite so sharp, eyes quite so bright, shoulders so perfectly broad—_

“Um.” Clark tried to hide his blush by pushing his thick glasses up his nose. “So, can you tell me about some of these complications?”

Wayne chewed his bottom lip. “I probably shouldn’t, to be honest. My PR department will shoot me if the Daily Planet headline turns out to be ‘WayneTech Miracle Cure Nothing But Snake Oil.’”

Clark bristled. “I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Wayne. This isn’t about a smear campaign or creating opposition to your project. If you can get this to work, you can save thousands—millions—of lives!” Clark’s voice rose. “You could…you could tip the balance of power in favor of those who desperately need it! You could save the world!” _You could do what I—what Superman can’t._ “Why would I want to put a stop to that? For some sordid, junk journalism headline? I have a lot more integrity than that!”

“I…” The color had drained from Wayne’s face, his mouth slightly slack. His expression was hard to read, surprise the only thing Clark could accurately register. It was only then he realized just how upset he was, when he looked down to see his notebook crumbled like a napkin in his fist. What the hell was wrong with him? Was he really so desperate for Bruce Wayne’s approval that he had to snap like an angry Doberman at the merest slight to his journalistic ethics? He was being a damn fool. He would have to work quickly to mend this—if he still could.

“I’m sorr--”

Wayne cut off Clark’s apology with a raised hand. “No. I apologize, Mr. Kent. Truly.”

Now it was Clark’s turn to gape, surprise rocking through him.

“I shouldn’t have called your ethics into question, especially knowing your past work. You’ve risked your life and made powerful enemies in order to share the truth, I should…I should trust your motives.”

“I still shouldn’t have snapped like that.” Clark felt unbalanced by Wayne’s unwillingness to let him apologize. That was twice now, that Bruce had apologized to him.

“You had every right to be angry,” Wayne said quietly, genuine remorse shining in his ice-blue eyes. It struck something deep in Clark, a moment of strange familiarity-- “Really, I feel like a colossal asshole right now.”

Clark couldn’t help the nervous snort that rose up in him, evaporating the last tendrils of recognition.

“What?”

Clark debated for a second. “There’s my headline right there—Bruce Wayne Feels Like Colossal Asshole.”

Wayne’s face remained a mask of confusion for a long second, and Clark instantly regretted the attempt at levity. He was just about to apologize, when Wayne’s face split into a wide grin and he let out a throaty laugh.

“It’ll sell papers, that’s for sure,” he chuckled. His eyes twinkled with mirth…and something else. Affection? No. Clark was imagining things again.

Clark felt the knot that had tied itself around his stomach slowly begin to unwind. However, the way things were going, perhaps it was best for him to call it a day before he royally screwed this up and Mr. Wayne decide to revoke his right to publish the article. Perry would skin him alive if that happened.

“I think I have more than enough here to put something good together,” Clark said, looking down at his crumpled notepad. That was going to make transcribing fun. “Really, thank you so much for this exclusive tour, Mr. Wayne. When you said you wanted to continue the interview, I figured it would be at your office, not at the labs themselves.”

“Bruce.”

The knot returned to Clark’s belly, but for a different reason. “Bruce,” he repeated, testing it out. It was only a single syllable, but it carried an enormous weight behind it. How many people got to call Bruce Wayne by his first name?

Bruce led the way out of the lab, and down a sterile hall towards the facility’s lobby.

“I didn’t mean to scare you off.” Wayne—no, Bruce—said, his voice oddly quiet.

“Excuse me?” Clark cocked his head in surprise.

“I know I can be a little…intimidating. I admire a man who doesn’t back down, even when he’s got a lot to lose.”

“I…” Clark genuinely didn’t know what to say.

_If only I could tell you—show you—just how much I’m truly capable of._

“Let me make it up to you. I still have some of my original sketches and notes on the project. Would those be of interest to your readers?”

 “That would be amazing.” _You need to find a better word, Clark, especially since you’re supposed to be a writer._ “Truly. I would love to see anything you’re willing to share.”

“Excellent.” Bruce swiped a passcard over a blinking panel set in a wall, opening the last set of doors and into the lobby. “Will you still be in Gotham tomorrow, or should I send a car again?”

_No, but I can be here in 5 minutes from Metropolis by air._

“I was considering staying. The Metropolis Meteors are playing an away game against the Knights tomorrow, so I thought about staying an extra day to give them a little hometown support,” Clark lied.  “But I can make myself available at any time.”

“Baseball fan, eh? America’s greatest pastime. Wish I had more time to see the games.” Bruce tapped at the tiny device on his wrist, undoubtedly checking his calendar. “How does 6:30 p.m. sound? A dinner meeting.”

“Works for me,” Clark said. He held out his hand to Bruce. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Until tomorrow.” Bruce grasped Clark’s hand firmly, and Clark’s chest tightened at the contact. His hyper-sensitive senses soaked in the warmth of Bruce’s skin, the nuances of the dozens of tiny muscles shifting underneath, the suddenly swift pulse of blood. Again, that odd sense of familiarity…

_Stop making up stories, Clark._

Clark reluctantly slid his hand out of Bruce’s, his flesh already missing the connection. He dared a look up to Bruce’s face, composing his features into his usual mask of professional cordiality –and felt it slip as he caught a bright glint of hopeful warmth against the icy blue.

“I’m looking forward to it.” Bruce had turned, passkey in hand as he prepared to re-enter the lab, when realization struck Clark.

“Oh! Where are we meeting?”

Bruce didn’t break stride, but he turned his head over his shoulder just enough for Clark to see the roguish grin on his face.

“My place.”

Clark stood, stunned, as realization sunk it. Had Bruce Wayne just invited him over to dinner at the world-famous Wayne Manor?

“Enjoy the game tomorrow.” Bruce’s voice lilted as the doors shut behind him, leaving a dumbfounded Clark alone in the lobby.

**********

Bruce’s hands were shaking in his pockets, but he managed to keep his composure until he made it back to his private office. Only when he had the door shut and locked behind him did he let his shoulders sag, leaning his head back against the heavy oak.

He was being stupid. Horribly so. Clark Kent was a journalist. A _male_ journalist.

This was a crush. A silly crush, born out of his horrible loneliness. True, he had his parade of arm candy—female arm candy—to keep the paparazzi happy and his libido sated, but Bruce couldn’t remember the last time he’d met someone who aroused him both physically and intellectually.

_Electric blue eyes. Wide, earnest face. Mind like a computer. Physique like a Greek god. Stamina like a—_

Bruce took a deep, shaky breath as he pushed himself off the door and walked to his sleek glass and chrome desk. He barely spent any time in this office, but he’d still had to have it decorated to the height of modern fashion. Appearances. It was always about appearances.

Not to Clark, though. His job was to strip away the glossy outer layer and find the dark, meaty truth underneath. Which was why any sort of… _association_ with him would be dangerous. Bruce knew that no matter how careful he tried to be, something would slip, and sharp Clark would catch it. It would only be a matter of time before he began digging for the truth. Imagine—having an interview with both Superman and Batman under his belt. He’d have his own show on CNN. Book deals.

Then Bruce remembered just how angry Clark had gotten earlier when he’d joked about Clark mis-representing the AMC. Bruce was a shrewd reader of people, and he could tell Clark hadn’t been faking. He’d been genuinely upset that Bruce would even suggest Clark would be more interested in headlines than truth. Maybe, just maybe, Clark Kent was that rarest of birds—a truly honest man. 

That scared Bruce more than he admitted. The last time he’d met a truly honest man, he’d broken him.

He brushed his thumbprint over the pad of a dark, lacquered box on his desk, and it lit up as it recognized his thumbprint. Inside was a smaller, metal box, and he pulled it out carefully. He nudged the lock open, and a green glow spread from the crack. It made sense to keep some of the Kryptonite he’d pulled out of Superman at the labs, and truly, this was the safest place for it. Who would look for it among Bruce Wayne’s personal knick-knacks, between the framed picture of his parents and a model Lamborghini?

_“It’s all right, Superman. You’re safe.”_

How had it all gone so wrong so fast?

Bruce slammed the small box shut, wishing he could close out his turbulent feelings as easily as he could the Kryptonite’s glow. There were few things he truly regretted in his life, and how things had ended with Kal-El were very close to the top of that list. He should never forget just how quickly lust could turn to depravity, respect could turn to dominance, and games turn into abuse. He should never let his guard down like that again—as Bruce or Batman—especially not around someone he cared for.

So why had he just invited Clark Kent to dinner at his house?


	8. The Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I have secrets, Clark. A lot of them.”_
> 
> _“So do I.”_

“I think this is the place.” Clark murmured to himself as he pulled his rental car up to huge, wrought iron gate with a heavy letter “W” emblazoned on the bars. It had to be. There wasn’t another estate around for miles. He couldn’t even see the manor from back here, only the road snaking away under a thick canopy of trees. He felt like he had driven into a completely new country, completely removed from the hectic bustle of Gotham City proper, a land of rustling leaves and rolling hills.

_Looks different in the daytime, doesn’t it?_

Clark fought the twist in his gut. This was close, painfully close, to where Batman hid his secret cave. It wasn’t surprising that it would be here, among the remote hills and forests bordering Gotham. Perhaps Batman was even being financed by one of the people who owned one of these fancy estates. Maybe, if Clark was lucky, he would catch a glimpse of the Batplane as it—

_Stop. You’re here to see Bruce Wayne for business. Let Batman go._

Clark forced himself to take a deep, cleansing breath, pushing down his turbulent feelings. Focus. He needed to focus. He’d gotten lucky so far with this story, and he didn’t want to sour that luck with another slip like he’d had yesterday. Though, if he really thought about it, that slip had led him here. That was luck for you, always unpredictable.

He announced himself to the buzzer at the gate, which swung open for him with a slow, majestic pace, like a curtain being drawn back from a theater stage. Once it was open enough, he rolled the silver SUV up the drive. He’d felt silly, renting the car, but it was part of his disguise. Not just for Bruce, but the Planet would get curious if there was no receipt from a rental company or a taxi service. Just another mundanity of being Clark Kent.

“Oh, wow.” His train of thought slowed to a stop as Wayne Manor proper came into view. It wasn’t a house, or even a mansion. It was a palace, a sprawling masterpiece of Gothic architecture done in dark stone. It was foreboding in its size and splendor, so incongruous with the sleek, modern air that surrounded Bruce Wayne.

Clark parked his car in the large, half-circle driveway that was roughly the size of a baseball diamond, and made his way up to the house with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder and a narrow, brown paper bag in his hand. He was embarrassed by the cargo, but his mother had raised him with manners, and Clark knew when someone invited you to dinner—even a business dinner—you brought something.

He rang the bell, taking another moment to try to soothe the nervous jitters in his stomach. _You can do this, Clark._

The heavy door swung open, revealing a thin, elderly man in a meticulously clean black suit. Ah. Of course Bruce Wayne had a butler.

“Can I help you?” The butler asked in a smooth British accent. His face was impassive, utterly unreadable.

“Um, Clark Kent to see Mr. Wayne?” Clark cleared his throat, hating how nervous he felt under the butler’s piercing gaze.  “I have an appointment?” Clark inwardly cringed as it came out more question than statement.

“Of course. The Master is expecting you,” the butler said easily, and stepped aside to allow Clark entry into the house.

The interior of Wayne Manor was every bit as impressive as the exterior, the entryway as big as a cathedral with its towering ceiling, high windows, and large archways leading off to other parts of the house. A round, mahogany table sat in the middle of the marble floor, bearing a huge vase filled with perfectly selected flowers. It was all so very proper, so very perfect, that Clark couldn’t help but feel small and rumpled and insignificant.   

“Can I take your coat and bags, sir?”

“Hm? Oh! Yes. No.” Clark stuttered. He felt his face burn, and he tried again. “My coat, yes, here.” He started to hastily remove it, and then realized he still had his bag on and his jacket was getting tangled. The butler stepped in to help without a word of derision. Professional, this one. “My bag, though, I’ll need it for my meeting with Mr. Wayne. It has my laptop.”

“If you’d like, I can put it in the Master’s study.”

 “Sure,” he said slowly, “that would be great.” He pulled his satchel off and handed it over to the butler.

“And your other bag?” The butler nodded to the paper bag in Clark’s hand.

“This is a…a thank you gift for Mr. Wayne.”

One of the butler’s eyebrows barely lifted, and it was so subtle a move Clark wondered if he would have noticed it if he didn’t have powers. His tone, though, revealed none of his skepticism as he uttered a placid, “of course, Sir. I’ll let Master Wayne know you’re here.”

“Thank you.” Clark felt more than a little relief when the butler strode off, freeing him from his quiet scrutiny. Growing up among blue-collar, rural folk, even the idea of having servants was something completely alien to Clark, almost offensive. No one was too good to get the door for themselves.

Two long minutes ticked by before Clark heard the soft click of Bruce’s shoes on the marble floor. He turned, surprised at how his heart rate had sped up to match the brisk stride of the steps. The pace of his pulse doubled as Bruce stepped through one of the archways, his smile as bright and broad as the noonday sun.

“Clark! I’m glad you found the place all right.”

So, Bruce was calling him by his first name now. It was only fair, considering Bruce had given Clark permission to yesterday, but it still struck Clark how easily Bruce took the initiative. It pleased him, actually, and he couldn’t help the chuckle the bubbled out of his nervousness.

“Your house is remarkably easy to find by internet map,” Clark mused.

“You have to love modern technology.” Bruce winked at Clark, sending heat racing from Clark’s chest down well past his belly. “How did you like the game?”

At that, Clark let out an amazed laugh. “You really didn’t have to do that, you know!”

“Do what?” Bruce asked innocently.

Clark had gone to the game purely as part of his cover--well almost just for that. It had been a long time since he’d sat down to watch a baseball game, since he’d left Smallville for good. He’d been expecting to sit in the nosebleeds, utilizing his super-vision to save himself a few dollars on the admission. However, when he’d handed over his credit card to pay for his seat, the attendant had informed him that his ticket had already been paid for by Mr. Wayne. That would have been enough, but as Clark had wound his way through the stadium, asking questions of the ushers as he went, he was amazed to find himself escorted to the one place he had never dreamed that he would ever see a game from.

“Put me on the list for your private suite at the stadium!”

Bruce shrugged easily, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Like I said, I never have time to watch the game anymore. It seemed a shame to let it sit empty when I knew someone who’d appreciate the view.”

“And that, I did. Thank you, so much.” He handed out the paper bag. Clark felt like a damn fool, some school boy bringing his teacher a shiny apple on the first day. Too late to back down now. “A token of appreciation.”

Bruce’s features creased in surprise, even as he took the bag. “You didn’t have to.”

“Yes I did. First for the invitation to your home, and now for the game.”

Out of the bag slid a slim wine bottle, its pale label standing out against the dark glass. Bruce squinted at it. “Tunisia?” He looked up at Clark, understanding dawning. “Where did you find this?”

_I flew to Tunis last night and bought it._

“I found a little import shop not far from the hotel I’m staying at,” he lied. “I was browsing, and it caught my eye. I made me think of you and the AMC project, how you got the idea in Tunisia.”

“I….” Bruce was speechless, his expression suddenly unreadable as he studied the bottle.

 Clark began to regret his choice. He had known that any wine he brought to Bruce Wayne’s table would be a poor specimen compared to any he had in his cellar already, but decorum dictated that he bring something anyway. So, he’d opted for the personal angle rather than the impressive. Perhaps it had been a mistake.

When Bruce looked up, his eyes were shining, his smile soft and genuine.  “Thank you, Clark. This is incredibly thoughtful of you.”

Clark shrugged, pushing up his thick glasses to help hide the color he could feel on his cheeks. “It’s nothing much. Just a little something.”

“It’s a big something,” Bruce said, his voice surprisingly thick. “Really, this means a lot.” His cool blue eyes met Clark’s. Gone was the bluster and bravado of a moment before, and for the first time, Clark had a feeling he was looking at the real Bruce Wayne, the man behind the mask—and God, that man was gorgeous.

“I’m, um, I’m glad you like it.” Clark tore his gaze away, lest he reveal too much of his conflicted feelings. This was so completely unprofessional. Then why was he so thrilled that Bruce liked his gift?

“Let me drop this by the kitchen, so Alfred can pour it with dinner.”

“Alfred? Oh! Your…” Clark hesitated.

Bruce laughed. “My butler. It’s okay to say it. It’s not a dirty word.”

Clark followed Bruce through the mansion, amazed at each turn by an ornate sculpture here, a centuries-old painting there. But, for all of its treasures, the place felt painfully empty, their footsteps echoing through the hallways.

After they’d dropped the wine off with Alfred, Clark expected Bruce to lead him to his office. However, Bruce seemed to have other plans, and he led him out a pair of wide glass doors onto a veranda.

“You don’t mind that we take a walk before dinner, and then get to business afterwards?” It wasn’t a question so much as an announcement of the evening’s itinerary.

“No, no problem.” Clark honestly didn’t mind, though he was honestly worried that the more time he spent—alone—with Bruce, the better chance he had of messing up the familiarity that seemed to be growing between them.

Clark let himself be led down a wide, stone staircase and out into a lush, well-manicured garden. He could see a koi pond not too far off, and tennis courts in the distance. It was like Bruce’s own private resort. Emphasis on private. There was not a soul—but Alfred—for miles.

“Your home is beautiful,” Clark murmured, suddenly aware of that silence. “I’ll admit, I pictured you as more of a downtown condo sort of guy.”

“I have one of those, too,” Bruce said flippantly. “But, it’s better out here. The quiet helps clear my brain.”

“I know what you mean.” He thought of his Fortress of Solitude out in the Arctic, of the wide expanses of clean, icy white. For one brief moment, he imagined flying Bruce there, wondered what the expression on his face would be as he took in the crystal palace among the frozen landscape.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, and Clark relished the sound of birdsong, the burble of the fountains. Bruce led him out towards the rose garden, and the scent of hundreds of spring blooms was almost overwhelming to Clark’s sensitive nose. He was in the process of quietly picking them out individually when Bruce spoke again.

“I don’t think it’s fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“That here you’ve spent the past three days trying to find out all you can about me, and I know practically nothing about you.”

Clark laugh, part relief, part unease. “That’s the nature of my job.”

“And part of the nature of _my_ job is knowing who I can trust.” Bruce let out a sigh, but when he next spoke his tone was light and breezy. “Clark Joseph Kent. Raised in Smallville, Kansas, by Martha and Jonathan Kent, adoptive parents. Graduated from Metropolis University with a B.A. in journalism, has been working for the Daily Planet ever since. ”

Clark’s blood ran cold, and he stopped mid-stride. How did Bruce know all this about him?

Bruce gave him a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry, I had to show off a bit. I had my people do a bit of a background check on you. You have a remarkably clean record, Clark. Not a single speeding ticket, not one embarrassing internet photo.”

“You…you spied on me?” The thought rankled Clark more than he thought it would. He knew there was no way that Bruce could discover his true identity by sifting through government records and internet searches, but it still unnerved him deeply. All it would take was one slip.

Bruce gave an apologetic shrug. “I dug this up after our first meeting at the benefit. I had to make sure that—”

“That I’m not some paparazzi in disguise? Some corporate spy?” Clark’s temper was rising again.

“That I could trust you,” Bruce finished, his voice gruff.

His deep tone threw a fire on Clark’s temper, and sent his heart hammering uncontrollably. He rubbed a clammy palm over his jaw, unsure how to respond. “I…um…” He took a deep breath, and tried again. “And do you?”

Bruce studied him, his gaze intense and probing, and Clark felt like a bug pinned to a board, splayed out open—

_No. He can’t be him…he’s not…_

Bruce’s face split open into a wide smile, and Clark felt utterly idiotic. He was seeing Batman everywhere because he was practically in his backyard. There was no way Bruce Wayne was Batman. Not with that mischievous grin. Batman never smiled like that. Ever.

“It depends,” Bruce said.

“On what?” Clark replied feebly. He was getting tired of these games.

“On your answers to a few simple questions.” Bruce resumed their walk, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Okay.” Clark didn’t even try to hide the confusion on his face.

“Lager or Ale?”

“Excuse me?” Clark sputtered.

“Lager or Ale,” Bruce repeated, with all the seriousness he could muster. “These are the sort of questions most journalists ask me when they conduct interviews.”

“I don’t know,” Clark laughed, “Ale, I suppose.”

Bruce nodded approvingly. “Baseball or Football?”

“Football,” Clark answered automatically, “if I had to pick just one.”

“Your favorite film.”

“To Kill a Mockingbird.”

Bruce arched an eyebrow. “Fascinating.”

“What’s yours?” Clark countered.

Bruce looked down. “I…I don’t go to the movies.”

Clark was surprised. “Don’t go? Come on, everybody goes…” he trailed off, watching the color drain from Bruce’s face.

_Damn it._

Clark had forgotten what he’d read in his background research—the night Bruce’s parents had been shot in front of him, they’d been coming back from the movies. Clark felt like a right royal idiot.

“Oh, oh, I am so sorry—”

“Don’t be.” Bruce tried to wave off his concern, and it was like watching an actor trying to adjust his mask after an accidental slip on stage. “It’s all right—”

“No it’s not.”

“Really—”

 “Look, I know how you feel.” Clark had no idea where that had come from, and it tripped out before he could stop himself.

That garnered a sharp, severe look from Bruce, and truly, something in the steely gaze froze Clark to the core. It spoke of a pain so deep, so stark, it would never heal. A raw, cold place, the place where his innocence had been broken by unspeakable violence.

“I never knew my real parents.” Clark’s voice was barely a whisper. He didn’t know what he was saying, what he was doing, but he had to give something to that icy void sucking him in. “They, and all my family,” _—and my planet, my people—_ “died shortly after I was born. The Kents…they found me on the side of the road as a baby. Alone.”

Bruce blinked slowly, the storm clouds in his eyes turning from black to grey. “How do you know?”

“There was a message tucked in my blankets. Ma and Pa showed it to me when I was older.”

Bruce looked at him silently, as if really looking at Clark for the first time. Before Clark knew what he was doing, he reached out, placed a tentative hand on Bruce’s arm.

“I know I can’t understand the horror you survived. But I do know the pain of losing your family. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone,” he swallowed hard, “especially not someone like you, Bruce.”

Bruce made a short, sharp laugh. “Someone like me? What does that mean?”

“Someone who despite his debonair playboy façade, really cares about helping people.”

Bruce turned his face away sharply, but not before Clark saw the genuine emotion crease across it. It fed a starved place in Clark, and as he felt along the edge in Bruce’s armor, he pressed, gently, unable to stop himself.

“Someone who really, really wants to trust in someone who can help him, but can’t. I can’t say I blame you. If I were in your shoes, I’d find it really hard to trust anyone either.”

_You have no idea, Bruce, how well I understand._

Was he imagining it, or was Bruce actually leaning into him? It was subtle, almost a sway, but Clark felt his hand sliding over Bruce’s arm until it curved around his back. Bruce was so close that Clark could smell the crisp musk of his expensive cologne, feel the warm ghost of breath across his jaw. Bruce’s face turned, and his haunted eyes met Clark’s for a long, long moment, asking a silent permission that was unmistakable. Clark stopped breathing, even as he gave a tiny acquiescing nod.

_Oh God, is he really going to—_

Bruce’s lips nudged against Clark’s, clumsily, almost accidentally. Clark froze, afraid that if he so much as breathed, he’d scare Bruce, end this moment before it had fully begun. But when Bruce’s dry lips brushed against Clark’s again with more purpose, Clark let himself melt into the kiss.

_He is._

It was a gentle kiss, warm and soft, demanding nothing. Clark’s whole body thrummed, every bit of his being focusing on that feeling as Bruce’s arms wrapped around Clark’s waist, holding him close. He’d been kissed before, but never like this—never by a man. Batman had never once kissed Kal-El.

_No. He just bound you, teased you, used you …and you loved every second of it. It’s all you can have, all you can ever have, because of who—what—you are…Kal-El._

 “I shouldn’t.”

Clark pulled back, breaking the kiss, along with his dark train of thoughts. He tried to think clearly. What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t get close to Bruce, especially not like this. Never mind the rules of journalistic ethics he was breaking.

“I’m sorry,” Clark whispered. He couldn’t meet Bruce’s eyes. He didn’t want him to see the genuine misery in his heart, the regret. Bruce was a good man, and he turned Clark on in ways only one other person had before. But Clark couldn’t have him, no matter how much he wished it, simply because of who he was.

“It’s all right,” Bruce said softly. He didn’t sound angry, just a little sad. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

Clark took a deep breath, trying to bleed off his desire with a long exhale. “Would you believe me if I told you it wasn’t you, it was me?” He winced. He sounded so cliché, and he struggled to recover.

To his surprise, Bruce palmed his cheek, pulling Clark’s face up to meet his ice-blue eyes. His face held nothing but kindness, concern.

“I said it was all right, Clark. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.”

God, Clark wanted to kiss him again. He was only inches away, that perfect mouth with its perfect little half-smile, the tiny scar across the top right bow.

_That tiny scar. Batman has a scar there, just that size._

_No. Stop seeing him everywhere. It’s over. He’s gone._

“You’re not making me uncomfortable. You’re making me too comfortable.” Clark managed a feeble little smile. To his relief, Bruce returned it. “I’m not really used to that.”

Bruce arched an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

_It means I’m used to being treated like a toy by the coldest man in the world._

Clark shook his head slightly to clear it. “I...I’ve actually just gotten out of a—” he struggled for the right word, “—complicated relationship. Not a very healthy one, if I’m honest with myself.”

Bruce cocked his head, silently inviting Clark to speak, if he so cared to. There was something in the gesture that gave Clark confidence in Bruce. The interrogation was over. This was an invitation to share, to unburden himself. He hadn’t been able to talk to anyone about what had happened. Perhaps, even in coded terms, it would help Clark to talk about what happened with Batman.

“It didn’t last very long. It started out casual, just...just, um…”

“Just sex?” Bruce’s little smile turned slightly wicked.

Clark flushed hot, and dropped his gaze. Maybe he wasn’t ready to talk about this yet.

“We all have those types of relationships sometimes.”

 “He was my first.”

“Oh.” Bruce sounded genuinely surprised. He could practically see Bruce doing the math in his head with Clark’s age. It embarrassed him, more than it should have, so he pressed on before Bruce could ask the questions he was sure he had.

“It was fine for a while. Then…it wasn’t.”

“Did he hurt you?”

Clark remained silent, unable to navigate the slippery slope of that question with a convincing lie. _Bruce, if you knew what I asked Batman to do to me…and how the only time he truly hurt me was when I realized he would never give me anything of himself—after I had given him everything._

Bruce’s arms tightened around Clark, drawing him into a deep embrace. There was no passion in this gesture, simply care, protection, as if Bruce were trying to shield Clark from his own past. Clark’s guilt gnawed at him, but he tried to push it aside by leaning into the hug. He buried his face in the crook of Bruce’s neck, inhaling deep to memorize the smell of him under the layers of his cologne.

_The scent of sweat and blood and leather, surrounding him in the darkness behind his blindfold—_

God, they even smelled similar. It was hard to tell, since the Kryptonite had robbed him of every super sense, and this was the only time he’d ever been this intimate with another man. He was being crazy again.

“The worst part is I can’t stop thinking about him,” Clark blurted, his words muffled against Bruce’s neck. “I see him everywhere.”

“That’s not uncommon. Especially if he’s all you’ve ever known.” Clark felt Bruce’s Adam’s apple bob against the side of his face, and then he said with a soft vehemence, “I wouldn’t hurt you, Clark. Not like that.”

Clark’s heart lurched, and he had to bite back the urge to let out a bitter laugh. _You can’t hurt me. I’m Superman._

Clark pulled himself up, but he couldn’t make himself look into Bruce’s eyes, to see the misplaced care there. More than at any other point in his life, he felt like an impostor, a fake, and he wanted for all the world to just leap into the air and fly away, to never have to face gorgeous, kind Bruce and the temptation he offered.

“Clark? Are you all right?”

Clark looked up, and the minute he saw the raw compassion, the tenderness in Bruce’s ice-blue eyes, he was lost.

He kissed Bruce again, hungrily this time, as if he could capture those precious feelings with his lips, draw them inside him where they would warm the cold places in his heart. He ignored the part of his brain that screamed that he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be torturing them both, that there was no way this would ever work. In this moment, he needed this. He needed _Bruce_.

The kiss lingered, building and receding as they slowly explored each other. It was rich and sweet and perfect, that one magic moment Clark had never thought he’d ever have in his life. Finally, when Bruce pulled away, Clark pressed his forehead to Bruce’s brow, closing his eyes to relish the moment. He realized Bruce was trembling.

“You’re shaking,” Clark said quietly.

“So are you.” Bruce replied.

“What do we do now?”

“I…I honestly don’t know.”

Clark couldn’t help the little laugh that bubbled up out of his turbulent emotions. “That’s a comfort.”

“Is it?”

“Means I don’t have to know what to do either.”

They were quiet for a long moment.

“I have secrets, Clark. A lot of them.”

“So do I.”

“No, I mean, big secrets.”

Clark bit back his challenge—bigger than being Superman?

“I understand,” he said instead, “you’re Bruce Wayne.”

As he spoke, he felt the absolute incredulity of the situation sink in. He’s been so caught up in his own emotions that he didn’t even think of what this could mean for Bruce.

They slid away from each other, their perfect moment melting away in the face of reality. Clark jammed his hands into his pockets, as if to keep them from gravitating back to touch Bruce.

“I know who you are,” Clark repeated, his voice soft, “I know what that means.”

“I wish you could. Truly.”

“No, really. I’m not hurt by it. It’s…it’s just how things are. I need you to know, though, that I don’t, I don’t want anything from you. Really. I’m not trying to use you, or expose you, or get close just for your money, or—”

Bruce raised a hand to stop Clark’s stammering, but his smile was soft and gentle. “I know.”

“What I’m trying to say is, your secret is safe with me, Bruce.”

God, were those tears at the rims of Bruce’s eyes? Clark couldn’t tell, because Bruce ducked his head suddenly, struggling to compose himself. This must be harder on Bruce than Clark knew. It was one thing for a journalist to “come out,” per say, but another for such a huge public figure like Bruce Wayne. It was impossible, and Clark wondered just how long Bruce had had to repress this side of himself to keep his family’s reputation intact.

“Thank you,” Bruce finally said.

Clark nodded towards the house. “Should we be getting back for dinner? Won’t your butler be getting worried or something?”

“Oh, he’s going to be plenty worried,” Bruce said, and there was a strange note of derision that Clark didn’t understand. “You’re right, though, come on.”

Bruce extended a hand to Clark, which Clark took. It was a small gesture, but it offered much—quiet intimacy, friendship, care. Things Clark had never known. He fought back the lump in his throat as he let Bruce lead him towards the house, towards an uncertain future. 

_What have I gotten myself into?_

*******

Bruce waved as he shut the door to the manor, bidding Clark a silent farewell as he drove away into the night. His lips still tingled from the soft, shy good-night kiss Clark had planted on his lips, which had almost seemed to have surprised Clark more than it had Bruce.

He couldn’t remember ever having such a wonderful evening. It had only been dinner, true, but they had laughed and joked, sharing stories as easily as they shared light little touches. Every time Clark’s hand brushed against Bruce’s hand or knee, his whole body flushed, and he could scarcely believe he had permission to touch back, to openly stare, to openly want.

There was no way that any sort of relationship would be sustainable with Clark. It was already complicated enough, without Batman as part of the equation.

_It’s for the best, Bruce. Remember how your last relationship ended—in silence and sorrow. End it now, before you hurt Clark, too._

Bruce felt, more than heard, Alfred’s quiet footsteps behind him, and he stiffened. Alfred had been shooting pointed looks at Bruce all night, which had been easy to ignore while Clark had been around. But now he was gone, leaving Bruce alone with his only confidant.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what, sir?” Alfred asked innocently.

“Don’t tell me what I already know.” Bruce turned, and strode towards his living room, towards the secret entrance to the Batcave. Time to go to work. He was getting a late start tonight as it was.

“And what would that be, Master Bruce?” Alfred’s tone remained maddeningly placid.

“That it’s a mistake getting involved with Clark. That it’s an enormous risk to both Batman and Bruce Wayne, especially since he’s a journalist.”

Once in the living room, Bruce triggered the secret button that opened the entrance to the cave’s staircase. The panel slid open silently, revealing the dark passage beyond. Bruce began his descent with Alfred in tow.

“Indeed, it is,” Alfred said. “All it would take is one compromising photo to bring scandal. And scandal brings scrutiny.”

“Clark wouldn’t do that.” Bruce was sure of it, to the core of his being. Something in those green-blue eyes spoke of his truth, though it was hard to read them through those Coke-bottle glasses of his. Why did such a handsome man wear such hideous glasses? Bruce wondered if Clark would take it as an affront if Bruce offered to pay for contact lenses. Or laser surgery.

“Perhaps he would not. But it does not mean someone else wouldn’t. All it would take is one paparazzo at the wrong moment.”

“I know. Which means this needs to end before it begins.”

“A highly advisable course of action, Master Bruce.”

Silence stretched between them until they reached the bottom of the long, winding staircase.

“He’ll be back tomorrow, Alfred.”

“Indeed?” His surprise was palpable.

“We didn’t actually get to the documents he came to see,” Bruce admitted.

They were silent the rest of the way down the long staircase.

“There are no documents, are there, Master Bruce?”

Bruce swallowed hard. “No. I’ll have to make some up before he arrives.”

“Ah.”

As soon as Bruce reached the Batcomputer, his mind started shifting focus away from Bruce Wayne and into Batman’s analytical frame of mind as he studied the map of Gotham that blipped up on the screen.

“Not the best way to start a relationship, is it?”

“What’s that?” Bruce asked absently.

“With deception.”

“All my relationships are built on deception.”

_“What I’m trying to say is, your secret is safe with me, Bruce.”_

_If only you could know the truth._

“Not all of them,” Alfred said quietly, before falling silent for a long moment. “If I may say one thing, sir?”

“What’s that?”

“This is the first night I’ve seen you genuinely smile in a very, very long time.”

Then he was gone, off to prepare Batman’s armor, leaving Bruce alone to lock that revelation away in the back of his mind for the night.


	9. Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gloved hands caressing his bare, sweating flesh. The cold touch of steel across his lips. The sweet helplessness of being willingly bound, surrendering…
> 
> _What would Bruce think if he knew this darkness inside you, Clark? His sweet, honest reporter? Yet another secret you’ll have to keep from him._

“Clark.”

“Bruce.” Clark’s hand was already out to shake Bruce’s as he was led into Bruce’s study by the same British butler as yesterday.

“That’ll be all, Alfred.” Bruce dismissed the butler with a polite nod, but his gaze was already locked on Clark as he stepped towards him.

Clark’s hand touched Bruce’s just as the door clicked shut. Clark anticipated another firm handshake, maybe an embrace, but Bruce drew Clark forward into a sharp, sweet kiss. Clark jolted a bit, and then eased into it.

“Hello to you, too,” he murmured, flushing. He hadn’t been expecting that. Wanting it, to be sure, since he had driven away the evening before. His lips had tingled all through the night, every time he had a free second between averting disasters.

“Sorry, I couldn’t wait. I’ve been thinking about that all morning.” Bruce’s smile was soft and sheepish.

“It’s nice to know I’ve been missed,” Clark admitted, even as he placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder to push him gently away. “But I only have a couple of hours until my train, and it’ll take me an hour to get back to Gotham, return the rental car--”

“I know. You have to get to work,” Bruce sighed. He traced Clark’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb before letting him go.

“I’ll be quick. I already have a lot for my article. This is just to flesh it out.”

Bruce was already moving towards the desk, as Clark dug through his satchel for his notebook. Bruce opened up a sleek, slim laptop, and tapped a few keys. He pulled out the black leather desk chair, and motioned for Clark to sit.

“You’ll have to forgive the redacted nature of some of the documents,” Bruce said slowly. “It’s already a risk for me to be showing you these.”

“I understand,” Clark said, already scanning the first document. Even on the computer, his super-vision could make out the substantial text that had been blacked out, and it was essentially gibberish. He clicked through the other documents—some were schematics, some were scans of sketches, some were long series of data. It didn’t make sense, though.

“It might be a bit confusing,” Bruce said, his voice deceptively innocent, “for someone who isn’t familiar with engineering.”

Clark was confused, all right. Why would Bruce show him falsified documents? Why wouldn’t he have just told Clark that he couldn’t see them in the first place?

Bruce’s hand landed lightly on Clark’s shoulder, warm and solid and electric, even through his shirt and jacket. It began to stroke an idle line up to his throat, and Clark’s mind began to fog even as realization dawned.

_Because he wanted an excuse to see you, Clark._

Clark debated for a moment. The journalist in him was angry to have his goals, his career exploited so. The man in him was quietly thrilled. He’d never been desired enough to inspire subterfuge like this.

_And what does the Superman in you think?_

Bruce’s fingers connected with the bare skin of Clark’s neck, and he swallowed hard. He only had 30 minutes left with Bruce. Ever. Once he walked out that door, he should never look back. Couldn’t Clark, just this once, not be a Boy Scout?

“I think I have what I need,” Clark whispered, his voice hoarse. He closed the laptop with a click.

 “I think I do, too,” Bruce murmured. His fingers traced up to Clark’s jaw, then hooked slightly under his chin, tilting Clark’s face up.

Clark’s heart was already hammering by the time Bruce’s lips closed on his again. God, each time felt like the first time, rich and blinding and sweet. The kiss deepened, and Clark moaned as Bruce’s tongue flickered into his mouth. It sent a pang of heat out from Clark’s core, radiating through his body like sunlight. His hand reached up behind Bruce’s head to pull him down closer, Clark’s other arm snaking down Bruce’s back.

“Mmmfph!” Bruce’s cry of surprise was muffled by the kiss as he practically tumbled into Clark’s lap, spreading his legs to straddle Clark’s knees and planting his hands on Clark’s chest to catch his balance. “Easy there, tiger.”

A different sort of heat raced over Clark’s face. He’d gotten lost in the moment, let down his guard. He’d have to be a lot more careful with his super-strength.

“I’m sorry. Got a little carried away.”

“It’s all right.” Bruce’s dark eyebrow lifted in surprise. “Wow.”

“What?”

“You _have_ been hitting the gym.” Bruce’s hand traced Clark’s firm pectorals through his thick argyle sweater vest and cotton dress shirt. “Hard.”

Dread began to gnaw in Clark’s stomach, encroaching on his bliss. He placed a hand on Bruce’s to steer it back up, as much as he would love nothing more than to feel Bruce’s hand sliding under his clothes, over his skin. If he’d lost control of his strength in a single kiss, there was no telling what other powers he’d let slip if he let things get more heated.

 “I should go.” Clark took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. “The rental car, my train--”

“I’ll have one of my cars drive you back to Metropolis. Or my private jet.”

Clark had to bite back a laugh, even as he shook his head. “Bruce, that’s not a good idea, and you know it.”

“I know,” Bruce sighed. He looked down at their joined hands, a sudden, brittle sheen in his ice-blue eyes as he whispered, “I just wish we had more time.”

Clark had to swallow past the lump in his throat. He squeezed Bruce’s hand, careful not to hurt him. “You’re wonderful, Bruce. These past days with you have been amazing. And if things were different…”

_If you weren’t a billionaire, and I wasn’t Superman…_

_…if I wasn’t Superman…_

_Wait. There is a way, isn’t there?_

“What if I could make things different?” Bruce’s voice was barely above a whisper. “What if I could be different?”

Shivers went down Clark’s spine as Bruce seemed to pluck the thoughts right from his mind. “I…”

“Clark, I’ve only known you a few days. I feel like you’re…you’re the only one I can be myself with. I already can’t stand the idea of not seeing you again.” Bruce began talking more rapidly, as if he were afraid if he slowed down he’d lose his nerve. “There’s…there’s got to be some way we can make this work. I know you’ve just got out of difficult relationship, and being with me is going to be more complicated and stressful than you can imagine, but I…I need to see you again.”

Clark felt like he was fit to burst, his heart and his head and his soul. Finally, after all this time, someone, no, not just someone, Bruce, wanted him—

_No. Not you. Clark Kent. Sweet, innocent, bumbling Clark Kent. What would Bruce do if he knew you were Superman? Or just how far from innocent you truly are…Kal-El?_

“Clark? Please. Say something.”

_No. It’s a mistake. I shouldn’t. I can’t…_

_…I can’t imagine not seeing you again either._

Clark looked up. “OK.”

“OK?” Bruce smile was tentative, incredulous, and gorgeous.

“Sure. Just…just give me a few days. There’s a few things I need to take care of first.”

 

********

“Batman.”

“Superman.” The Dark Knight nodded, his eyes not even lifting from the dark puddle on the concrete he was collecting a sample from. Clark was relieved. This was going to be hard enough without having to look into the wall of iced steel Batman hid his emotions behind.

This was the first time they’d seen each other since, well, since Kal-El had left the cave a final time. Even now, months later, and after all the happiness Bruce had brought him, seeing Batman sent a surge of conflicting emotions through Clark—uneasiness, regret…desire.

_No. Put that away for good, Clark. Think of Bruce, good, handsome, real Bruce. You’re doing this for him._

Clark swallowed hard. This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.

“I need to ask you something.”

This brought Batman’s head up. He finished tucking the sample into one of the numerous pouches on his belt, and his eyes flickered over Superman’s forehead, skillfully avoiding eye contact while still looking at Clark. It was only a moment, though, and he began turning away even as he spoke.

“There is nothing for us to speak about.”

It was almost a mirror of their first rooftop conversation, the one where Clark had instigated all this madness. It was his fault, really. If he’d been able to keep his arousal in check in the cave, if he hadn’t become obsessed with what he couldn’t have…he wouldn’t have lost Batman like this. Lesson learned.

Clark swallowed hard. He was going to have to play hard, then.

“One minute. You owe me that much, Batman.”

Batman stopped, his head snapping over his shoulder to glare at Clark through the slits in his mask. He had never been on the receiving end of that severe look before, and were Clark not Superman, he would be terrified.

“Then speak,” Batman growled.

Clark swallowed hard, but he kept his face impassive and his tone even.

“The medallion.”

“What about it?”

“Have you destroyed it?”

Batman’s face turned away quickly, but not before Clark saw the quickest flicker of hurt brighten his cold eyes. He’d hit a nerve. Surprising. Batman was silent for an eternally long moment.

“No.”

Relief flooded Clark’s heart. Things weren’t completely lost with him and Bruce.

“Even if I do, I have contingencies, Superman. More powerful ones.”

Batman’s voice cut through Clark’s excitement like a blade slicing through cloth. Too late, he realized the source of Batman’s hurt. He thought Superman didn’t trust him with it—and now he was threatening him in kind.

A strange anger welled in Clark, tightening his belly into a fist and turning his heart into ice. He hadn’t meant it like that, but if that was how Batman thought of him, then the truth was going to hurt even worse.

“This isn’t about contingencies. This is about moving on.”

“Oh.” Batman was motionless, processing what Superman was saying without speaking. Then, to Clark’s surprise, Batman reached for a pouch on his belt. He unsnapped the clasp, and pulled out the small, lead-lined box. Clark was surprised. He hadn’t expected Batman to carry the medallion on his person. Perhaps he really did intend to use it as weapon against Superman, if the need arose.

_Or maybe he actually misses you._

Clark shook his head to clear his doubts, just in time to catch the small box as it was thrown at him. He cracked it, and was greeted by the familiar glint of green, the flux in his senses as the kryptonite drained his powers just enough to make him feel human. The medallion was there, and Clark’s heart jumped to see it again.

_Gloved hands caressing his bare, sweating flesh. The cold touch of steel across his lips. The sweet helplessness of being willingly bound, surrendering…_

_What would Bruce think if he knew this darkness inside you, Clark? His sweet, honest reporter? Yet another secret you’ll have to keep from him._

“Thank you.” Clark looked up, but Batman was already gone. Clark looked around, and only with his super-vision did he catch the outline of Batman gliding off the side of the tall building, his billowing wings even darker than the night he dove into.

It was only then, seeing the bat silhouetted against the night, did an odd realization dawn on Clark. He looked down at the medallion, shaped into Batman’s iconic symbol. A strange pang lanced his heart as he realized it would be an eternal reminder of who he had first given himself to. He was marked.

Unease pooled in the pit of Clark’s gut. How was he going to explain the medallion to Bruce at all? It glowed with radioactive light, so wearing it around his neck would be out of the question. Not unless he could enclose it with a different metal somehow, but he risked damaging the effects, and therefore, damaging Bruce. Perhaps he could hide it in his pocket? That would work, until his pants came off. He had to think—

His super-hearing picked up a scream for help, not more than 500 miles away. Shoving the box into the band of his belt, he leapt into the night sky, racing towards the sound of distress. It was a poignant reminder. He could pretend, for a little while, but he would always have to be Superman before he could be Clark Kent. The world needed him—no matter how badly he needed Bruce.

********

Batman pulled his mask off his face, relishing the cool rush of air from the Batcave that soothed his heated skin. It had been a rough night. He winced, gingerly feeling the bloody gash along his abdomen where a thug’s knife had slid in the weak spot in his armor. Luckily, the blade had been short, but Bruce was still mentally kicking himself for his misstep. He’d been distracted.

Bruce made his way to his medical table, roughly pulling open the drawers as he gathered what he needed to patch himself. His feelings had been boiling under the surface since that meeting with Superman, and he’d managed to keep them at bay as he’d wrapped up his rounds for the night. But now, in the silence and solitude of the Batcave, the full weight of the encounter slammed into him.

He’d known that he would have to face Superman again at some point. There were always crises that brought them together, whether Batman needed Superman’s help or not. But Superman had kept his distance for the past weeks, so his sudden appearance tonight was unexpected. Especially since it had been to officially break things off for good.

_“This isn’t about contingencies. This is about moving on.”_

Why had it hurt so badly to hear those words? Bruce knew that whatever strange and warped relationship they’d forged had been shattered the moment Batman had broken Kal-El’s trust. He’d known there would be no forgiveness, no reconciliation. He didn’t deserve it. He just hadn’t realized how much he’d secretly wanted it until the hope had been taken from him.

Bruce sucked in his breath as he pressed antiseptic gauze to his wound. The fabric came back soaked with blood. He might need stitches. He should wake Alfred. No. He could do this alone. He could do all of it alone—

_You don’t need to be alone anymore, Bruce._

It was a new voice speaking from the back of Bruce’s mind—Clark’s voice, soft and kind. It was like a tiny flame, guttering against the deep darkness that had permeated every corner of Bruce’s being. He did not banish it this time, instead let it warm him, the tiniest ray of hope and light.

“Alfred. Are you awake?” Bruce activated the comm on the Batcomputer, wincing at the pain in his side as he leaned over. It hurt more than he let himself acknowledge.

“Yes, Master Bruce, I’m awake.” His smooth voice barely betrayed the lie. “Do you require assistance?”

“I do.”

“I’ll be down straight away, sir.”

Bruce sat back in his seat, holding the gauze to his side as he waited for Alfred.

_There, Clark, are you happy?_

Clark. Sweet, smart, honest Clark. What would he say if he knew that Bruce was Batman? If he saw the darkness, the raw fury inside him? What if Bruce lost control again, hurt Clark as he had Kal-El—

_Clark wouldn’t ask you to do what Kal-El did. Clark wouldn’t ask to be bound, to be hurt like that._

Part of that was a relief, and part of that sent a pang of regret through him. Before things had gotten out of hand, he had enjoyed the games he’d play with Kal-El, that exquisite dance of pain of pleasure, submission and dominance. It had been intoxicating, and it was something Bruce knew he might well never taste again, especially not with as absolutely perfect a specimen of flesh as Kal-El.

_But you can taste something else, Bruce. Something far sweeter than submission: genuine, honest tenderness. Someone who wants you for who you are, not who you pretend to be._

If Kal-El was moving on, then perhaps it was time Bruce did as well. Not from Kal-El, he’d already shut that door. But from his guilt, his fear, his isolation. Perhaps it was time for him to let someone in. And maybe, just maybe, in time, to share his deepest, heaviest secret.

Maybe he really didn’t have to be alone anymore.


	10. The Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I think it’s time you show me your bedroom.”_

“What is this?”

“Sushi.”

Clark rolled his eyes. “I’m not a complete hick, I’ve had sushi before. I mean, what kind?”

Bruce peered over to the tray in front of Clark, at the glistening, red slice of sashimi Clark was pointing to with his chopsticks.

“Tuna.”

Clark’s eyebrow raised above his glasses as he pinched the morsel in his chopsticks. “Doesn’t look like any tuna I’ve seen before. Usually it’s white. And between two slices of bread.”

Bruce couldn’t help his little half-smirk. “I thought you’d had sushi before.”

“I have. The California rolls you can get at the grocery store.” Clark looked sheepish. He brought the tuna up, but his hand slipped at the last minute, sending it tumbling back down to the tray. “Darn it. I’m still not very good with chopsticks, either.”

“You’re doing just fine,” Bruce soothed.

“You’re not going to be saying that once I drip soy sauce down this nice suit.”

Bruce smiled coyly, once again admiring just how dashing Clark looked in the sleek black suit from Barton’s. Bruce had bought it—much to the tailor’s delight—and had it sent to Clark’s apartment in Metropolis along with a note saying “for your next interview.” It was a rich gift, but could be seen as an innocently eccentric gesture of thanks. Clark had read between the lines, though, and had arrived at Wayne Manor this evening wearing it. It had only taken a few moments for Bruce to kiss away his protests at the extravagant gesture.

“Here, let me.” Bruce artfully plucked the fallen morsel with his chopsticks, and dipped it delicately in the little saucer of soy sauce before offering it up for Clark to bite. “Say _ah_.”

The blush that had been tinging Clark’s cheeks deepened, but he opened his mouth to let Bruce slide the tuna between his lips. His eyes never left Bruce’s, letting him read the mixture of amusement and longing swimming there—until he began to chew. Then his face screwed up in disgust. He quickly tried to master his expression, and swallowed as quickly as he could.

“That’s... _different_ ,” he said.

Bruce bit his lower lip to keep from laughing. “You sure you don’t want me to order a pizza instead?”

“No!” Clark shook his head vehemently, even as he slammed back the contents of his tiny sake cup, trying not to grimace again as he drank down the warm rice wine. “I like this! It’s very…cultural.”

Bruce looked over the simple, elegant table that he’d had set up in the atrium of Wayne Manor, the rainbow of expensive sushi presented on flawless, white trays. He’d had it all arranged by Gotham’s premiere sushi restaurant, and he’d gone so far as to fly in the freshest, most perfect fish from around the world. It was extravagant and ostentatious and so very, very Bruce Wayne—and Clark hated it.

He valiantly tried to pick up another piece with his chopsticks. “This one looks good.” He managed to pop it into his mouth.

“That’s octopus.”

Clark’s mouth froze mid-chew, a look of horror dawning on his face. Bruce was both amused and ashamed. He shouldn’t be torturing Clark like this. Not on their first actual date.

Clark swallowed down the bite with some effort, and then carefully put his chopsticks down. “Well. I don’t know about you, but I’m stuffed.”

“You’ve had two bites.”

“Stuffed.”

“You’re a horrible liar, you know.” Bruce pulled the cover off a large, square box at the edge of the table in front of Clark. A waft of steam rose up, filling the room with a sweet, meaty odor. “I also had chicken teriyaki made for you.” He handed Clark a fork he’d hidden under his napkin.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Clark looked part relieved, part ashamed as he took the offered utensil. “You didn’t have to do any of this. I would have been happy going out somewhere—” his words trailed off as realization sank in, and he tried to catch himself, “—or just, ordering Chinese take-out.”

Bruce’s stomach twisted around his meal. Truly, he would love nothing more than to be able to take Clark out on the town, to dine in Michelin starred restaurants, enjoy private box seats at the theater, cruise the river in his yacht. Being with Clark could make all those tedious diversions joyful, something more than keeping up a careful cover story. It could never happen, though. All it would take was one single slip of affection caught by one aggressive photographer, and Bruce would be fending off the paparazzi for years. Never mind what the rumors would do in the business field, and if the money stopped flowing, then Batman’s mission would be all the harder to finance. It was a snowball effect he just couldn’t risk.

“Thank you.” Clark’s voice was as gentle as the hand he placed on the back of Bruce’s. “I actually really love teriyaki.”

Bruce looked up, mesmerized by the hazy blue of Clark’s eyes. He wished for the millionth time he could just reach up and pull off his thick, black rimmed glasses, finally see the gorgeous face hiding beneath.

_Maybe tonight I finally will._

“You’re welcome.” He squeezed Clark’s hand. “I just wanted to do something special for you.”

“You just wanted to show off.” Clark’s mouth quirked into a little half-smile.

Bruce couldn’t help but mirror the expression. “Maybe. Just a little bit.”

“Well, if you’re going to show off, then I’m going to, too.” Clark pulled his smartphone out his pocket, and brought up Daily Planet’s webpage. He tapped a few times, and then handed it over to Bruce.

“Over three million hits already, and it only went live this morning! I had no idea I’d be that popular.”

“It’s not just you, it the idea of the AMC. It’s gone completely viral. We’ve already had some opinion pieces in support by some very popular and powerful figures.”

“It’s your writing that brought it across. You really are a gifted journalist, Clark. It’s why I trusted this story to you.”

Clark tried to hide his embarrassment by stuffing a large forkful of teriyaki into his mouth. God, what was it about his humbleness that made him so damn appealing?

A stray trickle of teriyaki sauce escaped the side of Clark’s mouth, and Bruce reached up to brush it away with his thumb. Before he could stop himself, he stuck it into his own mouth, sucking off the sticky-sweet sauce. Clark’s smile went from shy to sensual in the span of a heartbeat, and Bruce felt a different sort of appetite growing.

“Where’s Alfred?” Clark asked innocently, though Bruce understood the meaning behind the question.

“I gave him the night off.”

Alfred had almost dropped the silver candlestick he’d been polishing when Bruce had dismissed him for the night. He couldn’t remember the last time Alfred had taken a break. Not in years. Not since—

“What about Batman. Does he get the night off, as well, sir?” Alfred had asked.

Bruce hadn’t had an answer then, and he still didn’t have one now. He still had his watch connected to the Batcomputer down below, but he’d reduced the alarm urgency level to inform him only if a few key words came through the police scanner. It still made him feel uneasy, quiet guilt eating away at him. Gotham needed Batman, but tonight, Bruce needed Clark.

Bruce leaned forward and kissed Clark. He could still taste a trace of teriyaki on his lips, and he followed the flavor into the cavern of Clark’s mouth. Clark moaned softly as he yielded immediately, swirling his tongue around Bruce’s. He’d grown a lot more confident since their first kiss.

This time, it was Clark’s lips that traced down the column of Bruce’s throat, the soft kisses setting his skin ablaze. Bruce threaded his fingers through Clark’s dark hair, pulling him closer, heat flushing through his body. God, he wanted Clark so badly. He hadn’t ever felt a hunger like this since Kal—

_Stop._

“I think we’re done with dinner.” Bruce murmured against Clark’s hair.

Clark’s kisses slowed became more hesitant. Bruce wondered if he should have just stayed quiet, when Clark looked up at him with eyes bright and hungry behind his glasses.

“I think it’s time you show me your bedroom.”

********

_Oh God. This is really going to happen._

Clark tried to quell the nervousness flitting in his stomach as he gazed at the enormous four poster bed at the center of Bruce’s bedroom. For all the games he’d played with Batman, Clark had never done anything like this. He was used to being bound, to being commanded. How would he know what to do?

“Are you all right?” Bruce asked. He squeezed Clark’s hand reassuringly. “If you’re not ready, we don’t have to—”

Clark silenced Bruce with a sharp, hard kiss, drawing him in a tight embrace. To his surprise, he felt Bruce stiffen against him, crying out softly in pain.

“Oh! Did I hurt you?”

“No, no. I got zinged with a tennis ball yesterday. Left a hell of a welt.” Bruce tried to brush it off, even as he was holding his side. “I’m not about to let a little tennis injury keep me from finally getting you out of that suit.”

“You just bought it.”

“I know. Doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about taking you out of it since the moment I saw you in it.”

Clark flushed as heat rushed through his body. Before things progressed any further, there was one last thing Clark needed to do.

“Can I use your restroom?” Clark asked, his awkwardness feeling real.

“Of course.” Bruce gestured towards a nearby closed door.

Clark hurried away, locking the door behind him. He took a deep, steadying breath, too nervous to be properly impressed by the palatial bathroom. He caught his reflection in the massive mirror, and for a moment, he didn’t recognize himself. Tonight he wasn’t Superman, or Kal-El. Right now he was just Clark, and not that awkward caricature of himself he always had to play. In the suit he looked handsome, utterly desirable. He could do anything. He could do _this_.

He pulled the lead box out of the pocket of his fine slacks and cracked it open. Every one of his super-senses dimmed as he carefully lifted the bat-shaped Kryptonite medallion out of the box, and he could feel his strength draining away. Nervousness gnawed at him. What if it was different this time? What if something went wrong? What if the medallion broke, exposing Clark to the raw Kryptonite dust? At least with Batman, he knew if something went wrong that Batman would be there to help him. He didn’t know what Bruce would do.

He pushed against his fear and worry. To be with Bruce, he could do this.

Lifting his leg up onto the edge of the tub, he pulled down the thick, white sock to expose his left ankle. He wound the chain of the necklace twice around, clasped it, and then pulled the sock back over it. He shut off the bathroom light, checking to make sure no hint of the green glow escaped his sock. The bathroom remained dark. Perfect. Now all Clark had to do was keep his socks on. He could say he had anxiety about his feet. It was dorky, but it still beat the alternatives—risking hurting Bruce, or not being with him at all. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he opened the bathroom door.

For a moment, he couldn’t find Bruce. Then he saw him, not on the bed, but by the door. He was tapping quickly on the surface of his watch, his face grim. Clark’s heart sank. He knew what that meant.

“What’s wrong?”

Clark slid closer, hoping to catch a glimpse at what the watch face said, but Bruce had it angled away.

“An emergency…with the board of Wayne Enterprises.”

Huh. The hesitation, the aversion of his eyes…was Bruce lying? If Clark hadn’t dulled his super-senses with the medallion, he would have been able to check Bruce’s heart rate and pupil dilation. He didn’t know what made him feel more helpless—that he couldn’t check, or that he even had to think it of Bruce.

“At ten at night?”

“Sometimes it’s the only time they can meet.” Bruce looked up, grim faced. Wow. It must be a really important meeting to make him look so serious. “Clark, I have to go.”

“Alright,” Clark sighed. So much for their first date. “I’ll get my stuff.”

“No!” Bruce surprised Clark with his vehemence, and he put his hands on his shoulders. “This shouldn’t take long. I’ll be back in two hours, tops. Please, stay.”

Clark chewed his bottom lip, unsure of what to do. This is what life with Bruce would be like, then—never sure if their precious time together would be interrupted by some board meeting or some other financial crisis that Clark would never understand. That wasn’t even factoring in the times _he_ may have to leave unexpectedly.

“I told you being with me would be difficult,” Bruce said softly. “I understand if you want to go. But, it would mean the world to me if you were here when I came back.”

The naked honesty in Bruce’s voice turned Clark’s knees to water, and his stomach did a flip. He would do just about anything for Bruce if he asked him like that.

“OK,” Clark said, “I’ll wait.”

Bruce’s smile could’ve lit up the darkened room, and he pressed a quick, sharp kiss to Clark’s lips. Then, he was moving again, out the door and down the hall.

“There’s a TV room across from the study. I have all the channels. You probably won’t even have time to go through them all before I get back!”

“It’s fine, I brought my computer. I could stand to get some work done anyway.”

Bruce kissed him one more time in the entryway. “I’m going to take the entrance out to the garage. Can you find your way to the study from here?”

Clark looked around the maze-like house. As soon as he took his medallion off and could use his x-ray vision he’d be just fine. “You could’ve left me a map.”

Bruce looked suddenly concerned. “Look, I can call Alfred, he can be back in thirty—”

Bruce’s watch beeped urgently. Clark shoved him lightly in the shoulder. “Just go! I’ll be fine on my own. Then, we’ll pick up where we left off.” He gave what he hoped was a suggestive smile.

It must have worked, because he got one in return from Bruce. “That’s the thought that’ll keep me going, Clark.”

Then, he was gone, melting into the shadows of the darkened manor. Clark didn’t remember it being this dark when he arrived, but then again, he’d arrived shortly before sunset. Must be Alfred’s job to keep the lights on.

Clark wandered down the hall towards what he hoped was the study. He could feel the pressure of the medallion around his ankle, but he wanted to wait a few minutes to make sure Bruce was really gone. It wouldn’t be good if Bruce had forgotten a file, and came back to find Clark unclasping the—

A hard, sharp blow on the back of his head made Clark cry out in surprised pain. Stars burst behind his eyes, and he felt himself falling forward. He tried to turn, his hands already rising to block, but not quick enough to prevent the fist that slammed into his nose. The stars turned to red blossoms, and he felt something give way in his face with a sickening _crack_.

He was still reeling when he felt something cool and fabric yanked down over his head, pressing into his face. He kicked out, blindly, and a thick forearm slammed a hard block right against his ankle before grabbing on and twisting hard.

The effect was twofold. Clark’s ankle popped, sending a bright bold of crimson pain racing up his leg. He knew immediately why it hurt so badly—the block had crushed the medallion against his ankle bone. The kryptonite dust was seeping into the cuts made by the broken metal, and what had once been a mere dampening of his senses became full-blown eradication. Weakness spread through Clark like wildfire. Nausea churned in his belly, and he knew it wasn’t just the kryptonite. It was fear. Genuine, honest to God fear.

His hands were pulled hard behind him, and trapped in hard, tight cuffs. He wanted to cry out, to demand to know what was happening, but he could barely speak through the pain and disorientation. It was all he could do to stay conscious when he was dragged to his feet, and his ankle screamed in pain. He staggered against his assailant, and a second pair of rough hands steadied him, and he knew the second they forced him to walk he was going to pass out.

“We have him, sir. We’re bringing him in,” was all Clark was able to make out before he lost himself to the relief of darkness.

 


	11. The Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We’ll find him, Master Wayne.”_
> 
> _“I know. I just hope—”_
> 
> _“You will be sir. Clark is stronger than you think.”_
> 
>  
> 
> **This chapter contains scenes in which a main character is tortured by electrocution.**

Clark swam up from unconsciousness, only to be greeted by more blackness. He hurt. Oh, God he hurt. His left leg was a mass of tangled agony from his foot to his knee, his nose a swollen mess throbbing through his entire face. His hands pulsed in their too-tight bonds. Worst of all, though, was the sick, weak feeling coursing through him. It was worse than when he’d passed out, and he wondered what effects the embedded kryptonite was having on his bloodstream.

“Good evening.”

He tried to turn his head to find the source of the voice, but he was still blind. It must be a hood they pulled over his head.

“I’m truly sorry to have to bring you like this, but I knew you wouldn’t come otherwise. You spoiled rich boys are always so hard to pin down. ”

Clark tried to identify the voice, but all he could place was a slight eastern European accent. Was this one of Luthor’s goons? Hired mercenaries? How could he have known that Superman would be vulnerable at that moment?

“How…” Clark tried to speak, to gather information, but his mind was too addled to form a coherent thought.

“It wasn’t hard, not when those little toys the boss gave us took down you security system. I have to say, you must’ve royally pissed someone off to warrant them sending in us!”

The bag was yanked off of Clark’s head. His eyes were dazzled by harsh, white lights. Rough laughter assaulted him from all sides. He tried to pick out faces, but all he could see were hulking shadows, the feeling of numerous eyes watching him from behind the bright lights.

“My, but my boys did a number on you! I can barely recognize you, Mr. Wayne.”

_Wayne._

Bruce! It finally sank in. Whoever these men were, they had been after Bruce.

“And such a shame to mess up such a nice suit. Perhaps you can keep from making your dry cleaning bill any bigger by cooperating, eh?”

Thoughts began to click into place slowly, though it was like thinking through molasses. He and Bruce were of a similar build and coloring, and with the broken nose, the expensive clothes, and his missing glasses, Clark might be able to pass as him. It was his only chance. If they knew he wasn’t who they thought, they’d go after Bruce. Clark couldn’t let that happen. He’d have to stall for time, find some way to free himself. If only he had his powers—

A fist slammed across his jaw, surprising him as much as it hurt him.

“When we’re done with you, Wayne, you’re going to need a good plastic surgeon.”

Clark spat out a mouthful of blood. It tasted strange, coppery. He had to stay brave, for Bruce’s sake. What would he say in a situation like this?

“How much are you asking for ransom? Just let me know how much you want, and—”

Another blow to the solar plexus silenced Clark, and he felt something give in his ribcage.

“This isn’t about money, Wayne. Well, not about the pocket change you’re offering. This is about <i>big</i> money. My boss needs to know the password to the files for your big, secret project. We already have the data, and we know only you know how to access them. Now you need to tell us how.”

Clark didn’t know whether to be relieved or afraid. He knew enough about the AMC to play along, but not enough to give away any secrets.

“I’m not telling anything to thugs like you.”

“Well. So much for keeping that suit clean.” The voice said with artificial remorse. “Dmitri. Get the tools.”

A large, shadowed figure stepped forward, his broad shape cutting the light for a moment. Clark tried to see his face, but it was covered in a black, hooded mask, much like an executioner’s. Probably as much for intimidation as protection from identification. Clark pulled against his cuffs, but they didn’t budge. This was so much different that when he had willingly let himself be bound.

_Pretend, Clark. Pretend this is just a game. Take the pain and make it yours._

By now, Bruce would be home, and he’d seen Clark was gone. _God, please, please let him figure out what happened, not think I just left._

Clark heard a clinking sound behind him, and he forced himself to calm his breathing. He could do this. He was Superman. He was the Man of Steel. He would not whimper.

_Think of Bruce. Bruce Bruce Bruce—_

 

******

“Clark?”

Bruce walked through the manor, searching from room to room. He’d been looking for about five minutes, and Clark was nowhere to be found.

His heart sank with every empty room he found. Bruce knew he was later than he’d hoped, as the break-in at WayneTech had been a messy affair for Batman clean up. Three armored strike teams and one demolitions squad had almost obliterated the lab and the prototype AMC. As it was, there were numerous files that had been stolen, data banks that had been erased. It would take weeks, if not months, to repair the damage, if he could recover it at all. It was a huge problem, and Bruce knew he should be down in his Batcave, poring over the evidence he’d gathered to figure out exactly who had hired these trained professionals.

No, he knew who was behind it—Lex Corp. He just needed the evidence to prove it. First, though, he had to find Clark, explain that Bruce would be working late—

Bruce’s foot crunched on something as he approached the study. He squatted down and picked up a twisted, broken set of glasses, almost invisible against the pattern in the Oriental rug. They were Clark’s glasses.

“Clark?!” Bruce’s voice rose in alarm.

“Sir?” Alfred’s voice drifted from across the house. “Master Bruce, is everything all right?” He snapped on the light in the hallway, making Bruce squint. Alfred was still wearing his overcoat and bowler hat, his keys still in his hand. “Why has the security system been deactivated?”

Bruce’s heart plunged into his chest. “The security…” He tapped frantically at the Batcomputer on his wrist. It looked fine to him, but as he tried to access the security footage from the past hour, he found it was blank. As was the previous hour, and the previous hour, and the—

“We’ve been breached.” Bruce ran his hand along the carpet. His pulse sped even further when his fingers touched moisture. He pulled them up to his face. They were red. Blood. “They’ve taken Clark.”

“Mr. Kent? Why would they—”

“They thought he was me.” Guilt tore through Bruce. He’d never imagined Luthor would come after him in his own home. He thought he’d been protecting Clark by lying to him, by keeping him “safe” at the manor. How wrong he’d been. “When they find out they have the wrong man…”

Alfred didn’t need to finish Bruce’s thought. He was already moving swiftly into the living room, towards the entrance to the Batcave. Bruce was a heartbeat behind him. He forced his terror aside, focusing on what he knew about the attack on the labs, thinking about how to gather evidence from this scene. He couldn’t afford to be afraid. Clark’s life depended on it.

“I’ll get the evidence kit, sir.”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“We’ll find him, Master Wayne.”

“I know. I just hope—”

“You will be sir. Clark is stronger than you think.”

*****

“I’m not telling.”

Clark had once told Batman he needed to know what it was like to be human to be able to better serve humanity. Well, Clark had never felt more human in his whole life. He was saturated with fear, with pain, with helplessness. His wrists were raw from where he’d been pulling against his cuffs, refusing to let go of the hope that he could break out, somehow free himself from this situation.

“Wrong answer again, Wayne.”

Clark had a split second to brace himself before electric agony raced through his body, the electrodes sizzling the skin on his chest. He fought back his scream, but it tore from his throat, scraped raw from his previous cries.

The pain ended as abruptly as it began, and Clark sucked in a deep breath. God, how could a person hurt someone else so deliberately, so methodically? In an odd way, he understood death, even murder. But torture? 

“Again, I ask, what is the password to access the data files?”

The same question, for what felt like the hundredth time. Clark didn’t have to pretend, he genuinely didn’t know the answer. Part of him wished he did. He was skating the edge of delirium, wondering if he made something up, they’d give him some sort of respite—

“One. Two. Three. Four.” Clark gave a dry, helpless laugh. He’d heard it in a movie once.

“Funny. Hit him again.”

This time the pain went on for twice as long, and Clark was barely conscious by the time it ended.

“God, this guy’s made of steel,” his torturer muttered. “Most guys would’ve passed out again by now.”

_Lucky me,_ Clark thought.

“Look, Wayne, it’s just a matter of time. We have your files already. There’s an expert team of hackers trying to break into them now. Why don’t you save yourself a lot of pain and just tell us what we want to know. It’ll be so much easier.”

“Go. To. Hell.”

“I was trying to be nice. Now…” The man sighed deeply. “Dmitiri, get the blowtorch.”

It took everything Clark had to fight his sheer, blinding panic as his torturer slowly and deliberately lit the blowtorch. Clark used every last ounce of strength to pull against the cuffs, succeeding only in digging them further into the raw flesh of his hands. There was nothing to do but brace himself. God, this was going to hurt so badly.

“Think I’ll start with those pretty blue eyes—huh?”

The blowtorch went flying out of the torturer’s hands, skittering away out of Clark’s line of sight. Commotion had broken out, guns shots, yells of confusion.

“He’s here!”

“The torch! The place is on fire! Get the extinguisher!”

“Oh God, it’s the Bat!”

Never in his life had Clark been so happy to hear those words. A strange calm settled over him through the pain and fear. If Batman was here, he’d be all right.

******

Batman fought like a man possessed. His batarangs cut through the air like bullets, and his punches were quick and brutal as he fought his way along the warehouse scaffolding. He tried to get a good look at the figure bound in the spotlight below, but he had to focus on dispatching each and every one of these mercenaries. What he glimpsed, though, terrified him utterly—Clark, bound, bloodied, and still.

They’d tortured him.

Bruce snarled as he shoved his fist into a thug’s face, feeling dark satisfaction as he felt the bones give under his punch. Good. Let him feel a little of what he’d done to Clark.

“Fire! Fire!”

“Get out, guys!”

Bruce turned. When his batarang had knocked the blowtorch out of the torturer’s hand, it had lit up a pile of debris. The warehouse was ablaze, the fire coming closer and closer to Clark. Batman would have to choose—either apprehend the villains for questioning or save Clark.

There was no choice.

He jumped off the scaffolding, using his wing-like cape to buffer his fall. The heat from the growing fire helped, and he landed lightly on his feet. Down here, the acrid smoke was thickening, and he sprinted to Clark, his heart in his throat.

“Clark. Clark!”

Bruce knelt by Clark, his entire being going cold as he saw just how limp his was.

_Oh God, please don’t let me be too late. Please don’t let me lose you, too._

Clark’s face rose slightly. Bruce sucked in his breath. He didn’t recognize him at all—his nose was broken, his dark hair matted to his forehead with blood. Then, he smiled, and it was heartbreaking against the horror of his face.

“I should’ve known you’d come for me.”

_What?_ Bruce ignored his confusion as he reached into his pouch for a tiny explosive device. He slapped it against the chain holding the cuffs closed, and counted the three seconds before it exploded, freeing Clark. Clark sagged forward like a ragdoll, and Bruce caught him.

“Can you walk?”

“Leg. Ankle. Broken.”

“I’ll carry you then.”

Clark cried out in pain as Bruce lifted him in his arms. Bruce didn’t have time to look at the rest of Clark’s injuries. He had to get them out first.

“Ankle,” Clark muttered. “My ankle.”

“We’ll fix your ankle when we’re out of here.” Bruce looked around for an exit. All the doors were ablaze. Which only left up. Pulling his zip-line from his belt, he fired it up into the girders.

“Hold on,” he said to Clark.

Clark’s grip tightened, but weakly. It would have to do.

Bruce triggered the retraction, and the two of them sailed up out of the inferno. Once clear, Bruce was able to get them out through a high window onto the warehouse rooftop, where he half-carried Clark toward the fire escape. It was a long, long climb down, and Clark whimpered every time Bruce jarred him.

By the time they reached the bottom, Bruce could hear approaching sirens as firetrucks rushed to the scene. Good. Medical help would be with them.

“Clark? Clark!”

Clark had gone completely still. Bruce shook him, panic rising. He ripped off his glove with his teeth and felt for a pulse along Clark’s neck. It was weak, but there. The ambulance couldn’t get here quickly enough.

“Please, Clark, hold on,” Bruce whispered. “don’t go, not so soon after I found you.”

Clark’s eyes fluttered open. Without the glasses, they were as clear and blue as a Midwestern sky. “Bruce?”

It was only then that Bruce realized what he’d said, what he’d done—he’d given away his true identity.

He didn’t care.

He pulled back his mask, and placed Clark’s hand on his cheek, hoping the contact would anchor him.

“Yes, Clark. I’m here. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. The paramedics will be here soon.”

Clark’s head fell back against the rooftop, and for one, horrible moment, Bruce had thought he’d lost him. Then, in a voice so weak he could barely hear it, Clark spoke.

“No hospitals.”

“Clark! You need—”

“Ankle. Bruce. Please.”

Then his eyes closed again, his breathing hard and shallow.

Confusion creasing his brow, Bruce checked Clark’s right ankle. Nothing. He looked at the left, and saw the dried blood crusting the pant leg. There must be something truly painful there if Clark kept complaining about it, out of all his injuries.

As he pulled down the sock, a green glow dazzled his eyes in the dark. Confused, he felt along the swollen skin, wincing as he pulled out a shard of jagged metal. Out of the twisted shape trickled a few specks of glowing green dust. Kryptonite. It was the medallion he’d given Kal-El. Broken and warped, but unmistakable. Why did Clark have this?

Oh. God.

_His strength. His genuine earnestness. Those ridiculous glasses._

_“I just got out of a complicated relationship.”_

“Kal-El!” Bruce cried, shaking Clark’s shoulders. “Kal!”

But Clark—Kal-El—didn’t reply.


	12. Mending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Please, Bruce. Don’t hide from me anymore.”_

It was soft here. Quiet. Bright. Clark could tell even without opening his eyes. He could feel the sunlight warming him, healing him. It was lovely.

“Welcome back, Mr. Kent.”

A quiet, British accent pulled Clark from his little cloud of comfort, and he opened his eyes as he rolled his head towards the sound of the voice.

Beside him sat Alfred, Bruce’s butler. On his lap was a thick book, and he looked as peaceful as if Clark had interrupted him at the library. However, the table next to him told a different story; it was covered with complicated-looking medical scanners and equipment. Was Clark in the hospital? He’d asked Bruce for no hospitals.

“Where am I?” He asked. He still felt weak, surprisingly so. Usually all it took was a good dose of sunlight to bring him back to full health.

“Wayne Manor. The atrium, to be exact. Master Bruce thought it would grant you the fullest exposure of sunlight to heal.”

“He’s right. It was a good idea.” Clark looked down at himself. He was on a slightly elevated medical bed, covered with clean, white blankets. He was wearing what he assumed to be a set of Bruce’s pajamas—the fabric was exquisite, if not a little tight.

_You’ve worn Bruce’s clothes before, remember?_

Only now, away from the pain and chaos could the revelation truly sink in. Bruce was Batman. Batman was Bruce. The evidence had been right in front of Clark all along—the scar on the lip, the expensive “Japanese watch,” living within a stone’s throw to Batman’s secret cave. Clark just hadn’t wanted to see it.

He reached up to touch his face. His nose seemed to be back in place, but something was still awry.

“Your glasses, sir?” Alfred handed Clark a set of glasses. “I’m afraid your other ones were damaged beyond repair. I took the liberty of having them replaced.”

“That’s very kind of you.” He took the glasses, and almost put them on before realization hit—Alfred knew who he was. “You know I don’t need these, right?”

One of Alfred’s eyebrows arched, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I assumed as much, but I thought the familiarity might be a comfort after your ordeal.”

Clark put on his glasses. Alfred was right. There was something a little normalizing about having them on. He looked at the butler with a new respect.

“So. You know who I am.”

“Indeed.”

“So. You know about Bruce.”

“He couldn’t hide something like that from me if he tried.”

Clark wasn’t sure for a moment if they were talking about their heroic alter-egos—or the relationship between them.

“I can assure you, Mr. Superman, your secret is safe with me.”

Clark laughed. “I think I liked Mr. Kent better. Or, Clark is fine, too.”

“As you wish, Mr. Kent.” Clark’s enhanced hearing picked up the sound of a door opening two stories below, seconds before Alfred’s head turned slightly towards the open doorway. “Master Bruce is back from the lab below. I shall tell him you’re awake.” He rose, putting his book down on his seat.

 “Alfred?”

“Yes, Mr. Kent?”

“Thank you.”

Alfred nodded graciously and left. Now that he was alone, a strange fear twinged in Clark’s belly. How could he face Bruce—Batman—after everything that had happened between them? This made _twice_ that he’d needed saving. God, and after the silence, the heartbreak, then those few golden days that had been so full of possibility, where could they go from here?

Clark pulled himself up on the bed. His left leg still felt stiff, but he could move it without pain. The discomfort was still such a strange sensation. He was used to healing within minutes. How badly had he been injured?

He pulled down the covers and drew his ankle up. It was wrapped in a long, gauze bandage, and as he unwound it he marveled at the puckered tissue left behind. It looked like a scar. Clark had never once scarred in his life.

“It’ll heal. Give it another few hours.”

Clark’s heart did a flip as Bruce stepped into the room. He looked tired, with dark circles rimming his eyes, and a thick growth of stubble dusting his cheeks and chin. That chin. How could Clark not have recognized it?

“How long have I been out?” Clark asked, figuring he’d start with the more immediate questions.

“Two days.”

“Two days!” Clark was flabbergasted. “From a few broken bones and electrocution burns?”

“Two broken ribs. A broken nose. A dislocated ankle. Lacerated wrists. Third- and second-degree burns through 62% of the subdermal tissue in your chest. A mild concussion, and 37 lacerations across your body.  Those wounds would have killed a human if the shock you went into afterward hadn’t.” Even though Bruce struggled to keep his voice even, Clark could detect a hint of a waver behind his words.

“Oh.” Was all Clark could manage. No wonder he’d been in so much pain.

“Those weren’t the real problem, though. The worst was the Kryptonite.”

Bruce crossed over to the table and picked up a small tablet computer. He swiped his finger across it a few times before handing it to Clark. It bore a 3-D image of what appeared to be a hollow representation of Clark’s body. Inside it were throbbing veins of thin green.

“When your ankle was struck, the kryptonite dust made its way into your blood stream through the small cuts that were made by the broken metal. It had time to circulate through your entire body, damaging numerous systems as it went.”

Clark watched as the green swirled through the animated body. “How did you get it out?”

Bruce tapped the screen, and a twisted-looking apparatus appeared beside the schematic of Clark, and then overlapped his arm. The green particles swam out through the tangled tubes before being caught in a chamber. Bright red lines finished the circuit, and re-entered the body at a lower part on his arm.

“We essentially had to do a dialysis on you.”

Clark was shocked. “You drained all my blood out?”

“We filtered it, yes, and we got all the particles out. After that, your body could begin the self-healing process.”

Clark noticed the Bruce’s hand was shaking. Before he could think twice, he reached out with his free hand and clasped Bruce’s. For a moment, it felt like Bruce was going to withdraw, but Clark held on tighter. Bruce had no choice but to relax into the touch, even as his eyes avoided Clark’s.

“Thank you,” Clark finally said.

Bruce remained silent, his head bowed. He looked like he could fall asleep on his feet.

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?” Clark asked gently.

“I’m fine. I’ve gone longer than this before.”

That wasn’t Bruce talking, it was Batman.

“Lay down with me.”

Bruce balked. He looked up at Clark, confusion twisting his strong features. “What?”

Clark moved over on the bed. There wasn’t much room on the narrow gurney, but it would be enough. “You look exhausted. Lay down.”

“I…I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Silence filled the room for an eternity. When Bruce spoke, his voice was so quiet Clark wouldn’t have hear it if he didn’t have his super-hearing.

“Because if I do, I may never get up again.”

Clark took a deep breath. It was now or never.

“Please, Bruce. Don’t hide from me anymore.”

Clark tugged at Bruce’s hand, and this time, Bruce let Clark pull him into his arms. He brought his legs up onto the gurney, and Clark noted how careful he was not to touch his injured leg, even though it was mostly healed. They simply held each other for a long, long time, Bruce’s face buried in Clark’s chest, and Clark’s face buried in Bruce’s hair. He could still smell the smoke from the fire there. Bruce hadn’t even showered in those two days Clark had been unconscious.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Bruce finally whispered.

“At the warehouse?”

“Then. And when I came home and you weren’t here.” He hesitated. “And when you flew away from the cave for the last time.”

Clark tightened his grip on Bruce, fighting against the surge of conflicting emotions.

“I was afraid,” Bruce said.

“I know.”

“Afraid I would never be good enough for you.”

That surprised Clark to the core. Batman, Bruce Wayne…with inadequacy issues?

“You’re a God, Kal-El. And without that suit, I’m just a man.”

Clark wanted, more than anything, to tilt Bruce’s face up to him so he could read the honesty Clark’s eyes. But he knew Bruce well enough to know that exposing Bruce jeopardized this moment. Bruce always did best when he could hide his face. Instead, he ran his fingers through Bruce’s hair, held him even closer.

“I’m not a God. I’m a man, too.”

“A super-man.”

“I didn’t say I was human,” Clark admitted slowly, “but I think I understand what it means to be human a lot more now.”

It was Bruce’s turn to cling tighter to Clark. “What you went through....”

Clark swallowed hard, pushing back the memories of pain and terror that threatened to dampen this sweet moment. “I won’t lie. It was...horrifying.”

Bruce finally looked up, his ice-blue eyes sharp with sympathetic pain. “Why didn’t you tell them who you were? That you were the wrong man?”

Clark ran his fingers down Bruce’s gorgeous face. In his mind’s eye, he saw it bruised and bloodied, barely checked terror and resolve swimming in those ice-blue eyes. “Because then they would’ve come looking for you, Bruce.”

Bruce’s head dropped sharply to Clark’s chest, and Clark could hear his ragged breathing as he struggled to master his emotions.

“You should’ve let them!” Bruce snarled, hands balling into fists. “I could’ve taken care of them! I would have been able to escape a simple set of handcuffs. I’ve been tortured before, I could’ve—”

This time, Clark did give into the urge to pull Bruce’s face up. He planted a long, soothing kiss on Bruce’s lips, as if he could absorb his fear and fury.  He covered Bruce’s fists with his own hands, loosening them to slip his fingers between them.

“I know. Which is why you were able to save me.”

“This is all my fault,” Bruce whispered. “If I hadn’t made that damned medallion—”

“That medallion is what let me be with you, Bruce.”

“That medallion almost got you killed! Why were you wearing it? No, I know why you were wearing it.” Bruce looked even sadder. “I can’t let you take a risk like that again, Kal. Ever.”

Clark was quiet, simply feeling Bruce’s heartbeat through his chest. It mirrored his own, and Clark knew that if he pulled away now, it would be like ripping his own heart out.

“This isn’t your fault. This is both our faults. If we’d just been honest with each other from the start and trusted each other. Shook hands, exchanged identities,” Clark took a deep breath, “admitted how we felt for each other. We could’ve been here a lot sooner.”

“In a medical bay?” Bruce asked grimly.

“In love.”

The word hung in the air like smoke, thick and practically tangible. Then Bruce looked up, the wonder on his face was brighter than a hundred suns across a hundred galaxies.

“After everything that’s happened, everything I’ve done to you—”

“I still love you. I think I love you because of some of it.”

“Oh?”

“Not everyone surprises me with box seats at the baseball game.”

Bruce laughed, and it was a bright, clear sound, beautiful as a church bell at dawn. It filled Clark’s soul to the brim, banishing the darkness, the doubt.

“I don’t care if we’re never able to be intimate again, Bruce. As long as I can be with you—be myself with you—then I’m happy.”

Bruce swallowed hard. Clark could see a hundred emotions trapped behind the ice in his eyes, feelings he didn’t have the words for. Clark knew him. It would take time for Bruce to vocalize what he—

“I love you, too.”

Shivers raced through Clark, his entire being filled with a sensation as exhilarating as flying, as sweet as surrender. Bruce’s lips closed on Clark’s again, and this time the kiss was whole, perfect, nothing held back. 

There were no more secrets, no more lies between them. True, there was a rocky path ahead—battles to fight, double lives to navigate, intimacy issues to figure out. None of that mattered. Together, they could handle anything, even each other.


	13. Epilogue: The Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I understand if you’re not ready, Kal-El. We have things to discuss, boundaries to set—”_
> 
> _Clark crossed to Bruce in two steps. He grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him, hard, swallowing his words of reason._
> 
> _“I am so tired of holding back.”_
> 
> **NSFW**

“Raise your arm up higher.”

“Like this?”

Bruce’s fist darted towards Clark as fast as a striking cobra. He instinctively raised his hand to catch it.

“No!” Bruce barked. “Don’t catch. Block with your forearm.”

Clark dropped him arm, trying not to let his discouragement show. “I’m good at catching.”

“Which is great when someone throws something at you. But when they throw a punch…” he beckoned with his hands, inviting Clark to swing at him. Clark complied, careful to keep his strength in check by throwing a weak jab.

He needn’t have bothered. Bruce blocked the punch easily, sidestepping as he wrapped his hands around Clark’s forearm. Before he knew it, Bruce had twisted his arm, and Clark was on his knees with his arm locked behind him. Even with his strength and resilience, he could feel the pressure on his elbow joint as Bruce pushed against his shoulder.

“You have to learn to use their momentum against them.” Bruce finished his thought as he let go of Clark.

He offered Clark a hand up, and Clark accepted it, even if he didn’t need it.

“Again.” Bruce got back into position, spreading his legs into a fighting stance.

Clark sighed inwardly as he got into position across from Bruce. They’d been at this for over an hour, and he felt like all he’d done was frustrate Bruce and embarrass himself. Clark knew that Bruce was an expert at every form of martial art imaginable, so it must be practically painful to watch Clark struggle with the basics of Aikido.

“This would be a lot easier if I didn’t have to hold back my strength,” Clark grumbled.

Bruce’s eyebrow arched. “Controlling your own body is half the battle. This is good practice for you, Kal.”

Clark’s stomach fluttered. He loved hearing Bruce call him by his true name so easily. He’d been raised Clark, true, but Kal-El was private. Special, especially since Bruce was the only person who had ever called him that.

Bruce used Clark’s distraction to his advantage. His fist flew towards Clark’s face. He instinctively lifted his arm—then his super-processing took over. He perfectly mimicked Bruce’s earlier move—blocking with the forearm, rolling his hands over to trap it, then twisting to bring Bruce down to his knees. Bruce slapped the mat under him twice, and Clark immediately let go.

“I did it!” Clark cheered.

“You cheated.”

Clark’s pride dissipated in a fit of confused frustration. “No I didn’t!”

“That wasn’t your body. That was your super-computer brain. You’re not going to have time to think when someone comes at you again for real.”

Clark bit back a sigh. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but all I have to do is watch a dozen fighting videos and I’ll have this down. You’re the one who insists I learn it this way.”

“This isn’t something you learn by watching!” Bruce’s temper was rising, too. “It’s muscle memory and practice and sweat. It has to become instinct.”

Bruce stalked over to the bench by the mirrored wall, snatching up his towel and a bottle of water. He was sweating profusely. Clark hadn’t even begun to perspire.

“How am I supposed to learn this, then?" Clark asked. "I’m spending half my attention trying not to kill you with one punch, and the other half making sure I don’t fall on my face. I’m not human, Bruce, you can’t just ask me to shut off my powers like a switch.”

Bruce’s shoulders stiffened. Clark didn’t need to look at Bruce’s face to see his concern...or guilt. That was exactly why Bruce was forcing Clark to learn martial arts—in case he lost his powers again, he’d still have a fighting chance.

“You’re right.”

Clark blinked in surprise. “Wow. Did you just admit—”

Clark’s words cut off mid snark when he saw the small, lead box in Bruce’s hands. He must've had it hidden under his towel, and now he had it cupped in his palm. That got Clark’s heart rate rising.

“Here.” Bruce held the box out, not looking at Clark. “This might help.”

“Bruce, did you make—”

“Just open it.”

Clark cracked open the lead box. Inside was the most unusual ring Clark had ever seen. It was a single, thick band of completely clear material encasing three hair-thin lines of glowing green. The only other adornment was a glittering, square blue jewel.

“The kryptonite dust has been encased in a new, military-grade clear metal WayneTech’s been developing for years. No matter how hard it’s hit, it won’t shatter. Still, there’s an invisible kill switch on it. I need to program it to your thumbprint, so that only you can set it off. Once it’s set, the lead under the jewel will liquefy and coat the Kryptonite in three seconds. You won’t even have to take the ring off to get your powers back.”

Clark swallowed hard, and picked up the ring. It was breathtaking.

“What does this jewel do?”

“It’s a sapphire.”

“Oh. So it doesn’t have any special powers?”

“You could hawk it to pay rent on your apartment for the next year.” Bruce’s lip quirked into the barest ghost of smile before fading back into his poker-face. Which meant he was nervous. “If you don’t like it, I could put something else in. A diamond or an emerald—”

“Blue is my favorite color,” Clark said quietly. He slipped the ring on his finger, and felt his powers dampen immediately, just as with the medallion. Anxiety began to creep in from the edges of his excitement, but he fought it down. Bruce had gone to great lengths to make sure what had happened with the medallion wouldn’t happen again, and he trusted Bruce’s engineering.

“How’s it feel?” Bruce asked.

“Good. Looks good, too.” Clark lifted his hand to admire the ring, how the sapphire glittered in the workout room’s light.  “But, I thought you said you weren’t going to make something like this.”

“I wasn’t.”

“What changed your mind?”

“The last night you stayed over.”

Clark mentally cataloged that night after they’d gotten back from their patrols. They’d eaten, talked, and then they’d slept entwined together in Bruce’s bed. It’s what they did every time he stayed over in the six weeks they’d been together.

“Nothing happened,” Clark said slowly.

“Exactly.”

Clark suddenly understood what Bruce was offering—and what he wanted. In this ring lay a whole world of possibilities, the key to things Clark had thought lost with the medallion.

“I understand if you’re not ready, Kal-El. We have things to discuss, boundaries to set—”

Clark crossed to Bruce in two steps. He grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him, hard, swallowing his words of reason.

“I am so tired of holding back,” Clark growled, sliding his hands down Bruce’s shoulders, down around his back. He kissed Bruce again, nipping lightly at his lower lip. Bruce groaned, clinging to Clark as he returned the kiss with fervor. Clark’s hands drifted lower, hunger making him bold as he palmed Bruce’s muscular buttocks through his thin cotton gi pants.

“I’ve been wanting you for two years,” Clark breathed, his kisses trailing down Bruce’s jaw, down his throat.

“We’ve had each other more recently than that.” Bruce’s words were part moan as Clark sucked the skin on his neck.

“No. _You_ had _me_. You never once let me really touch you. It’s my turn now.”

Clark opened the top of the gi roughly, sliding his hand inside, over the white tank top Bruce had on underneath. He found the edge of the shirt and pulled up, running his fingers over the ripples of Bruce’s abdomen. Electric shivers coursed through him, guiding his hand higher until it skated over Bruce’s hard nipple. Bruce gasped as Clark pinched it, rolling it between his fingers.

“Should we go upstairs?” Bruce asked.

Clark considered. That plush bed was made to have sex in, and all they’d done is sleep. But, Clark could feel Bruce’s arousal against his thigh, hard and insistent, and it fueled the fire coursing through his veins. He palmed the bulge, squeezing it, loving the guttural moan his caresses forced from Bruce.

“I don’t think I can stop touching you long enough to make it.”

With one hand, he undid the tie of Bruce’s belt, and the gi top swung open as the black band hit the mat. Next, his fingers found the front tie of the loose pants, but he needed both hands to undo the tiny knot. Bruce made low, hungry sounds every time Clark’s hands brushed against his swollen shaft, and the sound made him delirious with want.

Finally, when the pants were loose enough, Clark pulled them down over Bruce’s hips, letting them pool around his knees. The only thing between him and Bruce’s magnificent cock was a flimsy layer of black cotton.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed this, Bruce.”

Bruce’s breathing was erratic as Clark dropped to his knees in front of Bruce. He hooked his finger in the waistband of the briefs, and pulled down, hard. Bruce moaned even louder, his fingers digging into Clark’s shoulder in anticipation. Bruce was as hard as Clark had ever seen him, but this time, it was Clark who was in control. He was the one free to touch, to taste.

Clark wrapped his lips around the head of Bruce’s cock and sucked it down in one hard pull. Bruce’s yelp of surprise morphed into a tortured moan as Clark sucked him in earnest, holding nothing back. There would be time for teasing later. Right now he just wanted to glut himself on sweat and flesh and seed.

After what felt like only a few minutes, Bruce pulled himself out of Clark’s mouth with a groan. “No, not like this.”

Clark had to fight back the wave of annoyance. “Bruce, I—”

“Lay down. Please.”

Clark looked up at Bruce, anticipation growing as he complied. Bruce kicked off his pants and pulled off his underwear, and once he shrugged out of his gi he stood before Clark in nothing but his tank top. The effect was more intoxicating than if he’d been completely naked, the fabric highlighting the musculature of his arms and legs, showcased the hard length of his erection standing against the white fabric.

Bruce stepped over to the bench again, and Clark thought he was going for a drink of water. Instead, he came back with a small, clear bottle. Clark’s entire being tensed hopefully as he read the label.

“You have lube down here?” Clark asked, incredulous. “How did you know we’d need it?”

Bruce smiled down at Clark, splayed out on the mattress. “I’m Batman, remember? I’m ready for anything.”

Clark smiled back, even as he was tugging off his own sweatpants and underwear. He’d been wanting to try this again—the right way—since that last, unsatisfying time. He was practically squirming with need as Bruce uncapped the bottle and squirted a generous amount on onto his hand. To his surprise, though, Bruce didn’t smear it between Clark’s cheeks. Instead, he began massaging it over Clark’s cock. He straddled Clark’s thighs, rubbing his own engorged length along Clark’s as he leaned forward, so close Clark thought he was going to kiss him again.

“I want you to fuck me.” Bruce’s voice was low and hungry, and it reverberated down to the pit of Clark’s belly. “I’ve always wanted you to fuck me, Kal-El.”

Clark balled his fists, fighting for control. In all his fantasies, he never imagined once that Bruce would ever allow Clark inside him. “Do it. Before I lose it like this.”

Bruce nodded, and Clark didn’t miss the hesitation in his gaze. Even as Bruce was squirting another handful of lube and rubbing it between his spread legs, Clark reached up and palmed Bruce’s face.

“You don’t have to do this, you know. I would be more than happy with yo—”

Clark’s tender words melted into a long, guttural groan as he felt Bruce’s tight muscles opening over the head of his cock. It was exquisite, so much tighter, so much hotter than Bruce’s mouth, and every nerve in Clark’s body vibrated with the waves of pleasure coursing through him.

“I want to,” Bruce gasped, sinking down further onto Clark. His thighs quivered with the effort of controlling his descent, and he came to rest on Clark’s pelvis in one agonizingly slow plunge. Master of his own body indeed.

Clark didn’t trust himself to move. He craved the sweet friction, but he feared that he would spend the second he tried a thrust. Instead, he took a deep, steadying breath, focusing instead on Bruce’s expression of utter rapture.

Clark’s heart felt like it was about to burst, watching the tiny nuances of pain and pleasure dancing across Bruce’s face. How often had he dreamed of this—of seeing the face under the mask, of feeling the body under the armor?  It was almost too good to be true, especially when Bruce opened his eyes and pierced Clark with his intense gaze, his crystalline eyes shining with nothing but love and trust.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Bruce slowly pulled himself up. Clark bit his lower lip as the pressure rose, then sank again around him.

“God, you feel too good!” he moaned. His hands flitted over Bruce’s thighs, up to his straining cock. Bruce yelped as Clark ran his thumb around the damp, swollen tip, slick with precum.

Clark’s touches seemed to rile Bruce up, and he began to move more quickly. His hips rose and fell, pumping Clark’s length inside his body. Clark whimpered and shook, trying his best to keep his own hips still, focus on pleasuring Bruce—

“Goddamn it, Kal, fuck me!”

Something inside Clark snapped. All the denial, all the restraint, all the sheer _want_ came surging forth. He grabbed Bruce’s waist in both his hand and thrust up, hard. Bruce cried out, and for a moment, Clark’s heart stopped. He was sure he’d hurt Bruce.

“Like that! Again!”

Clark did, again, and again, driving up deep into Bruce’s slick warmth, yanking him down onto his cock. He let himself go, bucking his hips wildly. Bruce rode him hard and fast, keeping pace with every thrust, building the pressure within him until Clark knew he couldn’t hold on anymore.

Clark entire body seized as he came, his back arching off the mats and lifting Bruce up into the air. He held Bruce down to him at the waist, driving in as deep as he could as he released inside of him. Within seconds, Bruce joined him, his jism spurting between his fingers and spattering across Clark's belly as he frantically stroked his own cock.

Bruce sagged forward, panting softly. His forehead came to rest on Clark’s shoulder, and Clark reached up to cradle him even closer. The shift in angle made him slip out of Bruce’s body, and the cool air in the workout room made his wet, enflamed flesh tingle, but he didn’t care. Nothing could make him let go of Bruce in this moment.

“That was perfect,” Clark murmured against Bruce’s ear. He turned his head slightly, needing to see the look on Bruce’s face. It was perfectly serene, the first time ever Clark had seen Bruce so calm, so whole.

“I’m glad.”

“Glad?” Clark chuckled. “After that, the best you can say is _glad_?”

Bruce gave him a chagrined grin. “I’m more than glad, all right?  What I’m trying to say is that I’m glad it was perfect for you. We can start over now.”

Clark’s brows raised in confusion. “Start over?”

Bruce placed a kiss on Clark’s cheek and rolled away, searching for his discarded towel. “No one’s first experiences should be mixed with pain and darkness, with someone whose face you can’t see.”

Clark couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of him. “Oh, Bruce.”

“What?” Bruce seemed genuinely taken aback.

“I didn’t go along with those games just for you, you know. I asked for them, remember?”

Bruce was quiet, mulling over Clark’s words as he pulled on his underwear and gi pants.

“You didn’t do it because it was the only way I’d let you close to me?”

“No. I did it because I really, _really_ liked it. Did it look like I was faking it?” Clark stood up, reaching for his own pile of discarded clothes. “It’s something I’d consider doing again, too.”

Bruce sucked in his breath lightly, and he looked at Clark with new eyes.

“Even after what you endured? You don’t think it would be too much?”

He’d thought of that. He’d encountered some truly terrifying trials in his life, but none had gotten under his skin quite like what had happened in that warehouse. He had forced his brain to bury it deep, but he still dreamed of that night sometimes. Not just of the pain, but of the fear and helplessness.

“I know the difference between games and real torture,” Clark said slowly. “But, yes, it may take some time.”

“Take all the time you need,” Bruce said softly. He palmed Clark’s cheek tenderly. “I’m in no rush.”

Clark was just about to lean in for another kiss when the watch on Bruce’s wrist began beeping insistently. Clark immediately pulled away. He knew what that sound meant. Bruce’s face was already hardening into Batman’s calculated scowl as he checked the watch, his finger tapping on the smooth surface.

“What is it?” Clark asked.

“Bat signal is going off. I have to go.”

“Do you want me to come?” Clark already knew the answer, but he felt compelled to ask anyway.

“No. But there is something you can do.”

“Oh?”

“LuthorCorp has just unveiled their version of the AMC. It looks nothing like WayneTech’s…from the outside.”

Clark’s eyebrow raised, a half-smile playing on his lips. “But on the inside?”

“I have insider information that tells me the design of the rechargeable power core is identical to one designed by WayeLabs—”

“The one whose data and schematics were stolen in that break-in a month ago.” Clark finished Bruce’s thought.

Bruce nodded. “If someone could get a look inside, say someone with X-ray vision…”

“Then we could finally pin the break-in and theft on Luthor,” Clark said triumphantly.

“I think that’s a story that could use Clark Kent’s byline, don’t you?” Bruce said evenly, even as his eyes glittered.

“It’ll make the morning edition.” Clark smiled. He resisted the urge to kiss Bruce again. It was one of their ground rules—once Bruce was in Batman mode, it was strictly business between them.

However, Bruce surprised Clark by turning slightly at the door of workout room, just enough so Clark could see the softening of his steely expression.

“Take care out there, Kal.”

“You too, Bruce.”

As Bruce’s footsteps echoed away down the hall, Clark twisted the kryptonite ring off his finger. His powers surged back to full strength. He rolled the ring between his fingers, looking at the face. It was smooth all the way around except for the sapphire. Surprising. He’d expected to find the bat-logo engraved somewhere on it. Batman always marked his toys—

It hit Clark like a bolt to the heart. Kal-El wasn’t Batman’s toy, not anymore. He was his friend. His lover. His partner. He was his own man…and that man chose to be with Bruce.

He pressed the ring to his lips briefly before putting it back in the small lead box. He’d leave this on Bruce’s pillow in his bedroom, as a reminder of what he had to look forward to next time Clark came back. A small gesture to show him that he was wanted, needed, loved…as Clark knew he was in kind.

For the first time in their lives, neither of them was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who read along and commented as this was posted! I've never posted a story this big--or in serial format--and it was really a wonderful experience to get to watch you all enjoy it as I revealed it a chapter at a time. It really felt like I was sharing with you, as opposed to just putting it up and running to hide (which had been my original plan). Y'all are a fic writer's dream. Thank you!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Bird in The Bush](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11622030) by [KAKameron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KAKameron/pseuds/KAKameron)




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